


Vice Versa

by drunkenCharm



Category: Blade (Movie Series)
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe, Dom/sub, M/M, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-26
Updated: 2015-04-03
Packaged: 2017-10-31 18:33:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 78,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/347153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drunkenCharm/pseuds/drunkenCharm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scud never chose to be a pet, but somehow he ended up as one. Here comes the misery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It isn't a dark and stormy night when his master gives a party for his so-called friends and familiars. Scud hangs around in one of the dimly lit corners of the crowded room together with the other pets. Some of them are chained to the wall. Luckily Scud's master isn't into that, even though he is a sadistic bastard. He'd rather save his fantasies for the bedroom – or what room they were currently in when hunger strikes and Scud gets bent over a table or a couch quicker than he can say “hemoglobin”.  
  
The room is full of vampires, most of them are non-pure bloods like his master. But there are some pure bloods too, quickly to be identified by their slightly disgusted expressions when a halfbreed or a familiar walks by. Scud is amused by this all too human behavior. Everything has to be tagged and put into a hierarchy – which ends with people like him, the human pets. They are toys with which their masters can satisfy their sexual needs and their Thirst.  
  
Scud's master's name is Anton. Not the most charming name for a wild beast and surely not fitting in regards of his short-tempered, brutal nature.  
  
Scud still remembers the day when he was cornered by a horde of vampires, every last one of them part of a gang of undead bastards who looked for human victims to sell them as voluntary pets on the black market. They say “voluntary” because no vampire, no matter how sadistic and cruel he or she might be, likes the thought of a pet that got picked off the street and maybe got “tried out” already.  
They didn't try out Scud, but he had to watch when one of the other volunteers wasn't as lucky as him.  
Anton bought him on the third day, tattooed his glyph right under his navel on the same night and almost drained him as soon as they got home. The only thing that saved Scud's lily white ass has been the taste of his blood.  
  
“Disgusting!” Anton said and threw him down onto the hard wooden floor. “This will need some time.”  
  
Scud chews on his bottom lip. He craves for a cigarette, but his master said he would get one only if he behaved well the whole evening – and up until now, everything went fine.

That was until the wide doors to the crowded room swing open. Everyone falls silent and turns their head to see what kind of ignorant intruder dared to show up this late to one of Anton MacHorvath's parties. And then he steps into Scud's sight.  
  
The air in the room seems to freeze. Scud can practically taste the tension which wafts through the room. As he turns his head and looks for his master, he sees some vampires even draw out their fangs. Long, sharp and deadly and he knows in whose throat they would like to bury them.  
He tugs at another pet's arm – a young girl, not older than sixteen – even though they aren't allowed to talk to each other, but he can't resist. A vampire who is able to silence a whole community of other vampires, even some pure bloods, is worth the risk of being talked about and getting caught.  
  
“Who's that?”  
  
The girl shoots him a sheepish look before she slightly leans over to him and whispers:  
  
“That's Deacon Frost. He's the owner of several clubs in town and actually a non-pure blood. My master hates him, just like everyone else.”  
  
Scud is about to ask why all the vampires despise this certain one when his master steps out of the group of quietly hissing and whispering guests. A few words are exchanged, some probably more sarcastic than the others, before Anton leads Deacon Frost away from the doors and further into the room, all the time a hand hovering over the other vampire's back like he didn't dare to actually touch him.  
Scud can't help but be a little amazed by this. His master is usually a loud mouth who doesn't care over such things as personal space, inappropriate touching or other signs of respect, but this new guest seems to make him tense up a little and Scud makes sure to enjoy this sight to the last bit.  
It is only when Anton and Deacon Frost vanish behind a thick crimson curtain which leads downstairs to the second living room and some small chambers for the pets that the first vampires start to rise their voices again.

Now it is even louder than before and Scud doesn't have to eavesdrop to know what the excited undead creatures are talking about.  
  
They are talking about Deacon Frost. His name wafts through the air like angry ocean waves, again and again crushing against Scud's ears and sinking into his slightly dizzied brain. His master doesn't feed him before parties. He says the hungry feeling adds a sweet flavor to the human's blood. He would only get some shitty citrus fruit anyway.  
  
Minutes pass which turn into hours and Scud constantly shifts his weight from one leg onto the other. His back hurts, his legs and arms are tired and the mood in the crowded room still hasn't settled yet.  
  
Scud jumps when a large hands lands on his shoulder.  
  
“Master Anton needs his pet.”  
  
It's one of his master's bodyguards. He must have sent him upstairs for the human, even though that's normally not the duty of them. The bodyguards, all broad shouldered and at least two heads taller than Scud, are usually positioned outside around the house. Anton MacHorvath is a vampire with influence – of course an assault is not an uncommon thing. Next to him and the maids, the bodyguards are the only human beings in his master's household. Every one of them has a glyph and will probably never need to read the newspapers for a new job advertisement again.  
  
The muscleman grabs him by his neck and drags him through the group of vampires towards the stairs behind the curtain. Scud tries his best to keep pace and stumbles ungracefully past hissing and licking vampires. He hates it when this happens.  
  
Of course he knows why exactly his master asked for the pet's presence. They call it gift exchange.

Anton and Deacon Frost sit in a dimly lit room together with some of muscleman's fellow companions and two of Deacon Frost's followers. One is a large man with filthy red hair and the other is a peroxide blonde chick with a mocking smile on her face. She hisses when Scud is pushed through the door and almost trips over.  
His master takes no notice of him and so he bows his head and carefully steps past the silent vampire guest, trying not to look in the direction of the crazy blonde chick and glides down onto the carpet floor next to his master's legs.  
  
Scud glances up to the vampire called Deacon Frost and investigates him carefully. His body looks young, not older than 28 maybe and his face is that of a businessman. There is no sign of any emotion or reaction to what his master says. Anton talks fast and in a foreign but familiar language which Scud can't and doesn't want to understand. It's the language of the vampires. Every last one of those bloodsucking sadists speaks it and they usually slip into it when they are discussing “mafia stuff”, as Scud calls it. Every time Anton has one of these "meetings," some vampire will knock three days later on his door to bring him a small wooden casket with Anton's emblems carved into it. And every time the casket contains a new pair of freshly torn out vampire fangs, bloody and still bound to the roots.  
  
“You must be hungry, Deacon.”  
  
The voice of his master shakes Scud awake from his daydreaming and every muscle in his body tenses up. He knows what happens next. It's like a sick imitation of human hospitality when people get invited to have a friendly dinner together.  
  
Today's special menu is Scud.  
  
Anton sits up on the couch he has placed his dead ass on and lets two cold fingers trail over Scud's bare throat.  
  
“This one's particular tasty. He was only fed mandarins for the past two weeks. Please, help yourself.”

Scud crawls over to the silent vampire and settles between his open legs. His heart picked up the pace and he knows that every damn suckhead in the room noticed this. The blonde chick and the red muscleman quietly hiss. Sharp, white glistening fangs are exposed, ready to bury themselves in Scud's soft pale flesh.  
He glances up to Deacon through long lashes, hands folded in his lap.  
  
But the vampire doesn't even look at him.  
  
“Thank you, Anton, but I refuse”, he says calmly, but Scud can still make out the disgust in his voice over the situation.  
  
“Ah, right. I forgot. You don't approve of holding a human pet. Now, that's just too bad”, Anton replies. He doesn't even try to hide his disdain.  
  
“Taking the Thirst as an excuse is mortifying for our superior race. They're just cattle after all.”  
Deacon leans a little back on the other couch as to show Anton who has the upper hand in this tensed situation.  
  
Even though Scud is afraid of the strange intruder, he'd like to give him a high five for that.  
  
He doesn't care that his own race is getting insulted over and over again in this conversation, that's something he's been used to for a long time, but seeing his master so verbally slapped in the face is new and exciting.  
  
An uncomfortable silence settles between the two vampires. Scud shifts nervously. Should he get up and leave Deacon Frost alone? Or should he stay, for his master hasn't said anything yet? He stills when Deacon Frost's gaze drops and lands on him. The “frost” in his name fits just perfectly, Scud realizes when those cold blue eyes settle on the small figure in front of him and seem to pierce right through him, leaving him shivering and breathless. There is no soul behind those eyes, just darkness and terror.  
  
Scud whimpers.

“What's the matter, pet?” Deacon asks, spitting the last word out like an insult. “Have you forgotten how to move on your own accord – or do you need your master's permission first?”  
  
He leans forward, just a little, but the move is enough to make Scud's heart stop for a beat. A cruel smile spreads on the vampire's face and the tips of his fangs show for a second.  
  
“Pet,” Anton barks and Scud shakes awake from his paralyzed state.  
  
Slowly, careful not to touch any part of Deacon Frost's cold body, he crawls back to his master. Scud can't remember ever being so happy to be called by the sadistic vampire bastard, but compared to Frost's icy cold hatred for humans he prefers the hotheaded nymphomaniac.  
  
“I think we're done here”, Anton says, not able to keep the small growl off his voice. “Your problem will be solved by tomorrow, just as we said. Shall I show you the door then?”  
  
“No, it's fine.”  
  
With one fluid movement Deacon rises from the couch and turns toward the stairs, his two companions following him silently like shadows.  
  
Just as the echo of their footsteps dies out, Anton grabs the nearest furniture – which happens to be the small table next to Scud. He yelps and ducks his head when the roaring vampire hurls it across the room like it weighs a feather. Scales of wood fly through the air and slide all over the floor as the table shatters on the wall.  
  
The next thing he feels is the pair of strong cold hands which grab and hold him in an iron grip as his neck is brutally bend back, just before two razor-sharp fangs are rammed down and through the sensitive skin there. Scud screams when his blood splatters all over the carpet.  
  
The last thought worming it's way through his dizzy brain is that maybe it would have been better for him if Deacon Frost liked pets.  
  
And then the world around him turns black.

  
  


** xXxXx **

  
  


Deacon Frost is no gentleman. He doesn’t care about any correct vampire behavior, like respecting the pure bloods or holding himself a human pet, for that matter. When Anton put that pitiful creature in front of his feet to be drained by him, he had felt nothing but disgust. Humans are already at the end of the food chain, so why would some of them want to degrade themselves even more?  
The pet had been pretty though, a young man with soft features. There had been nothing threatening about him and Deacon sadly knew that Anton favored those. It wouldn’t be the last time the vampire would offer him one of his pets in a derisive gesture, but it certainly would be the last time he saw this particular pet. The particular tasty one, as Anton had called him.  
  
His taste wouldn’t save him that is for sure. Deacon ignores the screaming and begging as he reaches the top of the stairs and peevishly pushes the curtain aside. He keeps his sensible ears shut and focuses on the wide doors to his exit when the vampires he walks past hiss and whisper cheap insults at him.  
  
“Half-breed.”  
  
“A disgrace of the whole vampire race.”  
  
“Someone should show him the light.”

To show someone the light means to simply let a vampire get burned away by the deathly sun. No one talks about it but this mafia like behavior happened from time to time, even though it is a betrayal of the own race. Deacon knows a lot of vampires he would like to see bristle and burst in the rising morning sun. Her light is most beautiful at dawn.  
  
They reach the doors and Deacon holds in a sigh of relief when he finally escapes the waving whispers of his fellow vampires. Mercury snarls and throws one of the bodyguards a glare as she walks past them. As soon as they leave the mansion and sit back down in the waiting limousine, she crouches down next to him, brushes the hair on his neck aside and nibbles the spot where once his pulse beat steadily against his skin. Now the pulse was gone and his heart was cold and dead.  
  
“I hate him”, she hisses and places a soft kiss on Deacon’s temple. He closes his eyes and slightly leans into the touch. “Why can’t we just kill him?”  
  
“Yeah”, Quinn joined in and scratches his bulky head. “I mean he’s an annoying little fuck, Deac. We’d be better off without him.”  
  
Deacon looks at him, unblinking and thinks if the broken knuckles are worth the hit. Sometimes he wondered why exactly he had turned Quinn back then. Maybe just to have a playfellow for Mercury, she gets bored quite easily.  
  
“Don’t you think I feel the same way?” he growls and rather ruggedly pushes Mercury’s wandering hands aside. For this, he earns a pout that he would like to wipe off her face.  
  
“Anton MacHorvath is the most spoiled vampire brat I have ever seen, but he enjoys a high affirmation from the pure bloods. I don’t even know why. Probably because he isn’t afraid to get his rotten claws dirty…”  
  
Deacon rubs his temples and stares out of the blackened window. It is still night. It’s always night when he’s out for business. Sometimes he missed the sun but only for a brief moment before he reminds himself that she is now his enemy.

 

**xXxXx**

**  
**

Scud can’t tell whether it’s day or night. There are no windows in the room and the only light comes from a small light bulb hanging from the ceiling that is slowly swinging back and forth in one of the corners. Scud’s condition isn’t any better: His arms are bound over his head and chained to a hook in the ceiling so his toes are barely touching the cold concrete floor. There is no feeling in his arms or legs anymore, which means he must have been here for some time now.  
  
He carefully lifts his head and takes a look around. His vision is blurry, probably from the blood loss and his stomach is doing flip-flops, which would make him throw up if he wasn’t in this disadvantageous position.  
  
Suddenly there is a cold hand on his lower back and Scud flinches which makes a sharp pain shoot up his arms.  
  
“I see my pet is awake,” Anton says darkly and rests is hands on the small of Scud’s back. Elongated nails are lightly scraping over the soft skin there and draw thin bleeding lines. “You have disappointed me tonight, pet. Frost didn’t want you.”  
  
“But,” Scud splutters and coughs. His throat is dry which makes his voice sound hoarse and pathetically helpless, “you said he doesn’t…”  
  
The nails which were just lightly touching his flesh are now drawing into his skin and Scud yelps in surprise.  
  
“That’s not the point!” Anton growls and grabs a fistful of the human’s dark tousled hair. Scud whimpers. Tears begin to collect in the corners of his eyes and he bites back a plea. If Anton were going to kill him he wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of begging for his life. That bastard could suck it, but he can’t hold back the tremble that slowly takes hold of his whole body. Anton notices this. A cruel smile spreads on his bearded face and he lets his hand wander over Scud’s neck down to his tailbone.  
  
“Maybe I should have tattooed you there,” he muses and rubs at the beginning of Scud’s crack. “You were such a good little slut, it would have fitted you.” 

Scud closes his eyes. He tries to regain some of his more comfortable memories while his master rants on with his dirty talk to get himself in the mood for the last joyride with his favorite pet. He remembers the face of his mother and how her eyes had shined when she had laughed or hugged him. As a child he had always shoved his hand through her thick blonde curls and enjoyed how soft they felt against his fingertips. The vampire who had raped and drained her had had his hand in her hair too, but he practically impaled her and suddenly the shining blond turned to a stinging red.  
Scud’s eyes fly open when he hears the sound of a zipper pulled down and just seconds after, he gets impaled by his master’s hard cock.  
  
He tries to keep his mouth shut, die with what was left of his grace and decency, but when Anton takes hold of his shaking hips and draws a clawed hand over his stomach, tearing flesh apart and spilling his blood over his thighs and onto the concrete floor, Scud begins to scream and tears mix with the dried blood on his cheek.  
  
’Mom, I’m sorry,’ he thinks as he tears at his chains and screams as loud as his tired lungs would allow it.

 

**xXxXx**

**  
**

The next night when Deacon returns to Anton MacHorvath’s mansion, his mood is ruined before he even climbs the steps towards the dark wooden entrance door, but then again, this kind of business is never combined with a good mood and he stopped caring about it long ago, so he just rearranges his plain white shirt and dark leather jacket and walks past a dozen bodyguards. Anton greets him with the usually cocky attitude of his, saying something sarcastic about his way of dressing and leads him down to the same room they sat in yesterday and discussed this particular job.  
  
“It’s good you check on your requests yourself, Deacon,” Anton says cheerily as he slides down onto one of the expensive leather armchairs and gestures his guest to take a seat on the couch in front of him. There is no sign of the shattered table anymore.  
  
“Well, you can’t trust anyone, right?” Frost replies and this time, it’s an open provocation from his side. Anton’s smile falters for a moment before his mug contorts into a big fake grin which exposes his long and thick fangs.  
  
“You’re right and I’m glad you brought that up.”  
  
Anton crosses his legs as Deacon sits down on the couch, his eyes never leaving those of the other vampire. Suddenly his fake grin turns into a downright smug smile. Deacon stills and waits for any sign of an assault, but nothing happens, no hunter with a silver knife or a bodyguard who tries to give him a garlic essence injection. It wouldn’t be the first time this happened and Deacon would make sure it wasn’t the last.  
Instead the ugly bastard just sits there and smiles at Deacon like he is some goddamned naïve child whose about to get his head washed for something by his sadistic father.  
His brows furrow in confusion and anger when a tensed silence settles between them and the flesh around his fangs starts to tingle in anticipation.  
  
“What is it, Anton?” he snarls, not able to stand the silent smile of the vampire anymore. “Have you swallowed your damned tongue?”  
  
Anton chuckles and folds his hands on his lap. 

He had to be fucking kidding.  
  
“Do you remember our little appointment from yesterday? Sure you do, I mean, you’re not here for the food, right? Well, it turned out that the vampire you wanted erased enjoys certain… amenities.” Anton stops and looks up from his own folded fingers. “He’s a pure blood, did you know that?”  
  
Deacon clenches his jaw in frustration. Of course he knew about the vampire’s origin but he didn’t care. In fact, no one should care about whether a vampire is a pure blood or a non-pure blood. It doesn’t change a thing, it’s just the imitation of the human need to have a system, a hierarchy to rule a certain group of existences and give another group the feeling of being superior.  
But this situation is more dangerous than he likes to admit and so he tilts his head, smiles and answers: “No, I didn’t know that. I’m sorry for the wasted effort then.”  
  
Anton nods and rests his head against the armchair as if in deep thought.  
  
“You know”, he starts to muse, “if someone found out that you wanted to have the fangs of a pure blood, it could get quite uncomfortable for you.”  
  
He looks at Deacon and there it is again, that smug smile that tears at every urge in Deacon to just jump up and rip the skin off the vampire’s face.  
  
“That’s right”, Deacon says calmly and fixates Anton’s gaze. “It would be a more than disadvantageous situation for me.”  
  
“How about this?” Anton moves forward in his armchair until he sits on the edge and rubs his cold claw-like hands. “I won’t tell Dragonetti that it was you who gave me that request and you will stay the fuck away from me and my business. This way we both can use this… certain situation to our advantage.”

If Deacon were still a human, his heart would pound angrily in his chest, ready to burst out and splatter hot blood all over Anton and his puckered mug. But he is a vampire and for a vampire it is impossible to just vanish when times are getting too dicey. So he has to use all of his charm and false compliance to save his damned existence.  
  
“Well,” he says and presents Anton his brightest and most teeth showing smile. “It’s a deal then.”  
  
Anton nods in satisfaction and rises from his sitting place. He looks down on Deacon and his eyes speak pure, unhidden disdain.  
  
“I will leave you for a moment, Deacon. There’s a call that needs to be done otherwise you might find your home covered in your companion’s guts.”  
  
With that he leaves the vampire alone in the dimly lit room.  
  
Deacon raises his hands, which he had kept as tight fists on his knees the whole time. The insides of his hands are bloody and torn where his elongated fingernails had burrowed themselves in the pale cold flesh. He stares at his blood and smears some of it between his fingertips. It’s cold but it doesn’t congeal, just one of the odd things of vampiric physics that can’t be explained by normal human science.  
Most humans still don’t know about the actual existence of the hominess nocturne. Just like Deacon when he was on his way back late at night and had encountered this beautiful pale woman…  
  
Suddenly a strange smell hits his nose. He tilts his head and sniffs. It isn’t as strange as it is weirdly familiar.  
  
He stands up from the couch and closes his eyes, trying to make out the direction the smell comes from. It leads him out of the room and down the darkened corridor which leads to a couple of metal doors, all having a small Judas hole which shows him the inside of the small chambers. Most of them seem to be empty, but the last one to his left is definitely the source of the strong smell. He leans his temple against the cool metal and inhales deeply. It’s a mixture of blood, sweat and something indefinable… something peculiar. 

His hands wander over the surface, feeling for a knob or a lock. Deacon frowns. Back in his head something tells him this was wrong and that Anton already had him on his shitlist but the curiosity quickly takes over and he wraps his long fingers around the small round doorknob and turns it slowly.

 

**xXxXx**

**  
**

Scud’s eyelids flutter but keep shut when the creaky sound of the opening door reaches them and makes his dulled senses tingle. His mouth is dry and his lips have small cuts that had previously bled. Now they are pale and cold from the blood loss and match the rest of his stiff body.  
  
Scud doesn’t feel the cold of the concrete floor; in fact he doesn’t feel anything. His body is as cold as his surroundings and his mind clouded and slow. The slow steps that approach him don’t even awake any fear in him. Everything is numb and dull and Scud is tired, so tired.

 

**xXxXx**

**  
**

Deacon slowly steps to the quiescent pet. He’s already half-dead. There is only a small pulse and Deacon knows the unstable rhythm all too well. His heart had pounded the same way before his creator had drained and turned him, but this pet won’t turn. Deacon smells nothing besides Death on this human. As he bends down to sniff and inhale the familiar smell he stills and frowns. He knows this pet; it’s the same from the previous night: the particular tasty one who had been offered to him by his master.  
Deacon smiles without feeling any joy. It’s a knowing smile; he had known this would happen. Poor thing, he looks like Anton had decided to have fun before he almost drained him.  
  
His arms lay uselessly to his sides and the cuts and scratches match those on his thighs and his chest. The worst part is his stomach. Chunks of flesh hang around deep scratches and his whole lower body is covered in clotted blood.  
He reaches down to brush some of the dirty strands of hair aside. They feel soft between his fingertips even though some of them stick together by dried sweat and something Deacon doesn’t want to think of too closely.  
The pet’s eyes are closed but slightly flutter when Deacon moves or lets his fingertips dance over the cold body’s surface. They had been of a full clear blue he remembers. Very pretty, for a human of course.  
As his gaze wanders down the pet’s body he makes out several bite wounds, some small and punctuated, other larger and torn. Deacon had met some coldhearted bastards in his life as a human and even more since he became a vampire but Anton MacHorvath is truly the most forbidding one.  
He decided to kill his pet because Deacon had refused to drink from him out of his own belief. The human had to suffer for Deacon’s decision.  
  
He investigates the pet with utter callousness. Why should he feel bad for it? It had been the pet’s decision in the very first place to become a vampire’s slave. Everyone knows that a glyph doesn’t protect them, even though it was meant to.  
  
The glyph. 

Deacon leaves the human’s hair and searches for the small tattoo under the navel. It is the only part on his stomach which hadn’t been completely torn apart. Deacon smiles and this time it’s a smug smile caused by a sudden idea.

 

**xXxXx**

**  
**

When his body is carefully lifted from the cold concrete floor Scud muses if this is his soul leaving his body. His mother had always told him that he would join his father in heaven when he died. Of course that was before Scud stabbed one of the watchdogs in the orphanage. That bastard had been a child molester and Scud almost had been one of his victims. Back then he had still cared who touched his body and took advantage of him and so he had fought and screamed until he was able to free himself and get help, leaving the freak to choke on his own blood.  
  
But Scud wouldn’t go to heaven. Not today.

 

**xXxXx**

**  
**

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Frost?” Anton barks as he runs up the stairs to the upper floor and is at Deacon’s side in three long strides. The vampire carries the limp body of the pet in his arms, his leather jacket draped around the bony shoulders.  
  
“You put that back right where you got it from,” he hisses and brings his face dangerously close to Deacon’s. But the other one just smiles, one corner of his thin lips pulling up in a mocking way before he tilts his head and fixates Anton’s furious stare.  
  
“Why? It seems you don’t want him anymore,” he says and shifts the pet’s weight in his arms. “And it would be a waste of some tasty blood. What did you feed him with? Mandarins, you said?”  
  
Anton growls and waves two of his bodyguards near.  
  
“You want to steal my pet, Frost? That’s forbidden! I will stake you for this.”  
  
“He’s not your pet anymore,” Deacon snarls and his fangs draw out to the fullest. Anton backs away immediately.  
  
“What-… of course he is.”  
  
Deacon huffs and looks down on the in dark blood covered glyph. The black ink still shines through the layers of clotted body liquid.  
  
“This glyph means protection, not only from other vampires but also from the master,” he says. His gaze wanders up until he meets the disbelieving look of Anton. “And you clearly failed at protecting him. As you know the respectful treating of humans is one of the pure bloods’ spleens, so I’m sure they wouldn’t be too happy to hear how Anton MacHorvath’s kills his humans just for fun on a regular basis.”  
  
He takes a step back and throws the stunned vampire his most disgusted look. “And that’s why he’s not yours anymore. He’s fair game and I will take him with me.”

Deacon doesn’t wait for a response, he turns around and paces out of the suddenly quiet room and heads straight for the exit. He needs to get home as quickly as possible and warn Mercury and Quinn to be more careful for the next couple of days.  
  
And he needs to make a call himself. Maybe a certain person can save the dying man in his arms.

 

**xXxXx**

 

“ _Josh?”_

_The boy turns his head at the familiar voice of the nurse. He stares at the officer standing next to her. His face is blank, no sign of sympathy for the child on the white hospital bed. The dying sun sends strange shadows dance over his wrinkled face and his eyes are almost covered by the large policeman cap on his head. Josh can still make out their color: a bright green with a small dark ring around the iris._

“ _This is Officer Lennon. He will ask you some question about what happened.”_

_With a tender brush over his small shoulders the nurse leaves the man and the boy alone in the room. Josh watches the officer take off his cap and draw a hand through his maroon hair. He has very thin hair with thick strands of gray in between. He carefully sits down next to the small figure of the child. Josh's eyes never leave his unmoving face._

“ _Tell me what happened to your mother, Josh.”_

_Josh snuffles and starts to draw thin scratches over his small pale arms with tiny fingernails._

“ _She's dead,” he says. The eyes of the officer investigate his eyes but they seem to go right through him. He doesn't see him._

“ _Who did that to her?”_

_Josh stares at the white blanket he sits on. The last beams of sun fall onto his naked legs. The nurse had taken his clothes when she washed off the blood on his skin. She then gave him a white shirt with blue dots ornamenting the surface. Josh picks at the thin fabric._

“ _Josh?” the officer asks and slightly leans closer to the silent child. “Who was it?”_

_Josh looks up, directly into those hard green eyes with the small dark ring around the iris. The wrinkled face is blank._

 

**xXxXx**

 

“What the fuck happened?“

Mercury is at his side as soon as Deacon steps through the heavy metal door. She sees the limp body of the pet in his arms and hisses.

“What the fuck is this?” she yells and paces after him.

Deacon heads straight to his bedroom, ignoring her furious attitude, and lays the unconscious human down on the red mattress. He turns to search his pockets for his mobile phone. The pet is barely breathing and from what Deacon can tell, the wounds on his stomach ripped open again, as thick blood starts to ooze out.

“Did you get my call?” he asks. Missouri's number is on speed dial and he curses as his bloody finger slips over the smooth buttons.

“Yes,” Mercury snaps and throws him a furious glare. “The guards are positioned around the building. Quinn checks the clubs and I locked all shutters – just in case.”

“That's not enough,” Deacon mumbles. He clenches and unclenches his fingers as he waits for someone to pick up.

“Missouri, get your fucking phone already.”

He is just about to throw the little black thing away in frustration when he hears a crack and a snarling voice appear on the other end.

“Missouri here. What case of dying bastard have we this time?”

 

**xXxXx**

 

Missouri leans over the pale body in front of her. The bloodless complexion of the pet creates a hard contrast to the deep red of the mattress underneath. She wrinkles her small nose at this; Frost's taste of furniture hadn't changed in 40 years.

“So, where'd you pick up this poor bastard?” she asks as she shoves her glasses back onto her nose in a habitual move and inspects the bite wounds on the arms of the human.

Deacon paces around the room, strained and throws her an annoyed look. If this damn pet died he would lose his only advantage against Anton and probably be dead himself by midnight. But, no, of course Missouri had to satisfy her fucking curiosity first.

“He was Anton MacHorvath's pet. I took him with me,” he answers tersely.

Missouri turns her head and raises an accurately plucked brow. Deacon growls, which earns him a warning finger wave in his direction.

“Don't you growl at me, mister! I'm not here to be fucked with. Do you even know what bad condition he is in? Who do you think I am? Some stupid show doctor from ER?”

“Oh, you mean like George Clooney?” Quinn asks excitedly, standing next to a still furious and pouting Mercury.

“Shut up, Quinn!” Deacon and Missouri bark at the same time.

Missouri turns back to the unconscious pet. That poor bastard probably doesn’t even take notice of any of this hysteria around him. With a deep sigh she opens her medical bag made of the finest of snakeskin and pulls out a small syringe.

“I'll give him some garlic, just in case,” she mumbles and fills it with the for vampires deathly liquid. Deacon wrinkles his nose at the smell of it.

“Garlic? That's it, I'm out!” Mercury throws her hands up in the air as she stomps out of the room, Quinn quickly following her. Deacon looks after them and clenches his jaw in frustration. Mercury meant the world to him, but sometimes she annoyed the fuck out of him with her way too short-tempered nature.

“Frost, move your glory ass over here and help me, will you?”

Missouri steps to one side of the bed and flips the tip of the syringe. Small drops of garlic pour to the surface and drop down on Deacon’s expensive bedding.

He decides to burn them later.

“Hold him down in case he begins to thrash around. Otherwise he'll decorate your terrible white walls with his guts.”

The small woman bends down, brushes some of the sticky hair aside and with a familiar move draws the tip of the syringe through the sensitive skin right over the weakly beating pulse. Deacon holds the pet’s bony shoulders down and watches his face closely. When the human stays still, fear starts to gnaw on the inside of his chest.

“Will he die?” he asks anxiously.

Missouri shoots him a downright judging glare over the edge of her frameless glasses.

“Course not, you fucking idiot. I don't kill my patients; I repair them. And now get out, I need space and your vampire mug pisses me off.”

Deacon carefully lets go of the human's shoulders, his hands hovering for a moment over the soft skin before he slowly steps away from the messy scene. Missouri already turned her back on him and searches her medical bag for some gauze and disinfectant.

 

**xXxXx**

 

There is fire all around him. Hot flames licking at the skin at his arms and legs and his stomach feels like it’s going to burst. Scud winces and clutches with weak fingers at the soft fabric under his stiff body. It feels like acid runs through his veins and angrily gnaws on his very essence. His eyes fly open as his hearts wrenches like its torn out of his chest by invisible hands and he is blinded by white glistening light.

His mouth opens to scream, but no sound fills his ears. The fast rush of hot blood through his head covers any other sound. Scud panics and tears at the thin fabric between his trembling fingers.

Suddenly a dark figure breaks through the bright light; its shadow covers his eyes and takes the sight. Then there are hands all over him that press him down onto the ground.

Scud screams, at least he thinks he’s screaming because the grip loosens for a second. He sees his chance and releases a hand from the cold claw around his wrist. As his knuckles hit a hard cool surface Scud groans. He writhes in pain and thrashes his head around as strands of brown fly into his vision and brush over the numb surface of his face.

There are hands again but this time they didn’t let go when Scud screamed in sheer panic and confusion. Instead a heavy weight settles next to him and there is the light again. It shines so bright, just like the sun.

Scud falls silent and stares into the pure white. He hears something like a whisper, a row of voices all around him. He can’t make out from which direction they come from for they seem to be everywhere.

His head falls to the side as strength leaves him again. Darkness crawls over his body, which takes hold of his mind and blackens his vision. Before Scud sinks back into the dark he can make out a pair of light blue eyes, staring at him through the clouds of fading consciousness whilst the whirl of voices around him calms and dies out completely.

 

**xXxXx**

 

“This pet is thoroughly damaged. Have you even seen the wounds? And don’t get me started on his mental condition. What would you want with him, Frost?”

Deacon looks up and investigates the small woman in front of him. Missouri is old, wizen and not the most charming person, but who is he to complain about discourtesy? She always did her job well and already saved a couple of his more loyal followers who deserved to stay in his circle of confidants and familiars.

“Missouri, I am surprised. You are usually not that chatty.”

A slight grin crosses his features when the woman snorts and closes her medical bag. She immediately had packed her things after anesthetizing the screaming and fighting human.

“I’m just doing my job, Frost and I would like to stay alive while doing so. I am not looking forward to a revenge act by his former master,” she says and again looks at him over the edge of her round glasses.

“Don’t worry, when I took him he wasn’t MacHorvath’s pet anymore. If he should choose to assault me for my actions, he will have to suffer the consequences.”

Her body may be old but her spirit and mind are young, this Deacon knows when she searches his face for any sign of peradventure, but no one reads Deacon Frost that easily, not even Missouri.

She sighs heavily and shoulders her bag.

“Well, if you are sure about this, Frost, so be it. Now, will you move your honey body and open the door, please or do I, the old lady, have to do this by myself?”

As hard as it is to admit, he has something like respect left for Missouri and her work. As much respect as he could have for a human, of course.

He leads her to the door, winks her goodbye – for which he gets some mumbled insult – and finds himself moments later standing awkwardly in the living room, not sure of what to do now.

It’s not like he doesn’t have anything to do. Deacon Frost is always busy and now that Anton refused to get his fucking job done, Deacon has to find an alternative solution.

With a defeated sigh he searches his pockets for the familiar feeling of a cigarette pack. Smoking doesn’t really calm him, the nicotine has no effect on his metabolism but he likes the feeling when the smoke floods his lungs and he can pretend like he needed to breathe again.

Deacon doesn’t miss being human, this he tells himself every time.

He looks down at his shirt. What has been a clear white is now covered in dark red. The stench of that pet is all over him. Deacon inhales deeply and the tip of his cigarette burns up.

 

**xXxXx**

 

_The glass hits the kitchen floor and shatters into a thousand little pieces._

“ _Don’t move, sweetie!”_

_Josh watches the little crystals slide over the floor as his mother quickly picks him up and carries him out of the room._

“ _Are you mad?” he asks and sheepishly looks up at the woman through his dark lashes, but she just smiles and pinches his round cheek._

“ _I’m not mad with you, Josh, it’s just a glass after all, but let’s not tell Daddy about this, okay?”_

_The child nods. His mother smiles and heads back into the kitchen, leaving him with a not completely calmed conscience sitting on the small, smelly couch of their living room. Josh looks out the dusty window as his mother collects the little crystals._

_Suddenly she yelps and clutches her hand as red streams down her wrist._

“ _Mom?” Josh calls out worriedly._

“ _No, it’s nothing!”_

_She looks up at him and shakes her head, the blonde curls swinging with every move she makes. They glister in the light of the late sun._

“ _Stupid me, I cut my skin with the glass…”_

_Josh watches her get up and carefully step over the shattered mess to the sink. A line of red dots follows her feet._

“ _It’s just blood, darling.”_

_The woman turns around and smiles at the silent child._

_Everything is red._

 

**xXxXx**

 

His eyes open to the sight of a plain white ceiling.

Scud blinks a few times against the blur confusing his vision. His body feels heavy and a little numb, but he can still make out the soft mattress he lays on. There’s a tingle in his fingertips and as he tries to wriggle with his toes he can hear the slight creak of bones. When he was younger one of his roommates in the orphanage had dropped a big fairy tale book right onto his toes and since then, they creak when he bends and curls them. Scud wonders why he remembers this now.

With a careful move he turns his head and sees a wall, which is just as white as the ceiling. The whole room is painted in a spotless bright white.

He pushes his body up from the soft mattress and ignores the sudden feeling of dizziness. His limbs feel heavy like he had slept too long. When he sits up a sharp pain shoots up from his lower body. His gaze drops down.

Where once had been the smooth soft skin of his stomach is now a thick bandage wrapped around his waist. Scud frowns and tugs at the gauze. It smells strangely familiar, like it is bathed in some spice.

“You’re awake.”

He looks up from his bandaged body and takes sight of the man standing in the doorway. Scud blinks and rubs over his eyes. His mind is too clouded to get a hold of the situation.

“Where… wher-“

What comes out of his mouth doesn’t sound like his voice at all. It is just a raspy slur, slow words formed by chapped lips.

“You are at my house, the house of Deacon Frost.”

Scud stills. His vision blurs and sharpens steadily like he got one shot of booze too many. When he looks up again, the man hasn’t made a move. He just stands there and watches him closely.

Scud covers his stinging eyes with the palm of his hands.

“Deacon Frost?” he repeats. The name sounds familiar but he has no connection to it. Or maybe his brain just wouldn’t let him. Everything feels so numb, like it doesn’t belong to him.

He just wants to go back to sleep.

“You slept two days through. No wonder, your former master almost killed you. It took several of my saved blood bags to catch up with your loss of blood.”

There is a growl in the voice, like Scud did something incredibly stupid, but if he did, he can’t remember.

“I feel dizzy…” he mumbles and his arms fall limply into his lap. He stares intensely at the man in the door way or what he could make out of his form.

“The doctor who saved your pitiful existence is a genius, but your wounds will take some more time to heal. Sleep, human, you have a purpose to fulfill.”

The man turns around and leaves the room and a confused Scud alone with his dazing thoughts and blurry mind. Scud stares at the closed door for a little while before he slowly sinks back into the pillows, a deep sigh leaving his tired body, too tired and numb to even notice the painful straining of his stomach’s skin.

His eyes fall shut and this time Scud doesn’t dream.

 

**xXxXx**

 

When he wakes everything around him is dark. Scud’s breath quickens as his heart beats painfully hard against his ribcage. He doesn’t like darkness; it wakes unpleasant memories in him.

He stretches his arms out to feel for his surroundings. The tips of shaky fingers knock against a cool surface. He lets his flat hand wander over it. It is smooth, no sign of a button or a crack.

‘Stay calm,’ he tells himself repeatedly but panic rises and presses down on his lungs. Where is he? How big is this thing anyway? Is he buried in a coffin again like that one time when Anton wanted to punish him for… for…

Scud whimpers.

“Master?” he calls out but his voice is shaken by desperation. “Please, let me out. I’m begging you, whatever I did… I will do anything… anything-“

His voice dies, the sound of it covered by the loud thudding of his own heart beat in his ears. Scud bites his lip and clutches the fabric wrapped around his naked body.

“Master Anton?” he calls again, quieter this time because tiny sobs began to take hold of his tensed up body.

Suddenly he hears something unlock and the top of the strange room around him lifts up with a mechanical sigh. Bright light falls into his eyes and forces his pupils to narrow.

He blinks up at the tall shadow hovering over his form. Scud’s heart skips a beat, as he makes out a pair of cold light blue eyes staring down at him, investigating him callously.

“No,” the man says and tilts his head at the human. “It’s Master Deacon now.”


	2. Chapter 2

Instead of soothing clearance confusion overtakes his mind. Scud blinks up at the man who just claimed to be his master. He doesn't understand. Anton is his master. He watches as the pale lips move quickly, forming words which should probably explain his situation but Scud still tries to fight the clouds buzzing his mind.

“Hey.”

The man snaps his fingers in front of Scud's face, ripping him out of his thoughts.

“You understand me?”

Scud swallows against the sudden jump of his heart. He reacts like he has been told the past months - _“Whatever you do, don't disobey!”_ \- and nods, a quick jerk of his head which sends the room around him rotating.

“Good.”

A pair of cold eyes fixes him in place and looks him over with an expression which Scud would describe as a familiar mixture of disgust and primal interest.

“How are you feeling?”

Scud tears his gaze from the frowning face. He stares at the parts of his body not covered by a thin white blanket. His arms are spotted by small round band-aids, their clean white giving only a small contrast to Scud's own pale skin. He takes a breath, looks up and nods again.

It seems to be the reaction the man waited for. He nods in return and throws a bundle into Scud's lap.

“Put these on and then get up.”

Without another word of explanation he turns around and leaves Scud alone. He tugs at the bundle in his lap and unfolds a pair of barely worn jeans as well as a simple black shirt. He remembers faintly that his taste in clothing had been a different one, but since some time Scud is happy with any kind of fabric covering his skin from hungry looks.

He slips out of the strange mechanic bed. Carefully, as his legs give a warning ache when he tries to hold his weight up with them. With weak arms he strides on the clothes, wincing when the skin on his stomach strains painfully.

His memory is clouded and maybe he should be glad for that, but it does nothing to clear the situation he somehow stumbled into. A part of him would laugh about this, about him because it is just so typical for him. Poor Scud, running from one disaster into the next. But this part had fallen silent a long time ago.

He follows his new master into an angled living room. Most of the walls are glass, showing what lies behind. The furniture isn't as bad as Anton's had been but of course everything about it speaks Vampire.

Scud stops in front of a large leather couch and waits. His master paces around the room, talking to a person on the other end of his small headset. Scud doesn't understand a word. It's this vampire language again, so whatever the reason for this certain call is, it means trouble for someone.

With an annoyed hiss the man tears the headset off and throws it across the room. Then his attention returns to Scud. The human tries not to flinch when those hard eyes settle on him. Suddenly his master looks annoyed, downright nerve-wrecked and he can't but feel that this is his fault.

“What are you staring at?” the man snarls.

Scud's gaze drops down to the floor. He doesn't want to anger him, not until he knows him well enough to asses his reactions.

He dares a quick glance when the man looks him over, nodding his head as in thought.

“You'll need clothes”, he says, more to himself than to Scud. “My assistant will be here within a few minutes. Try to be a good pet and don't make it difficult for her.”

When Scud doesn't reply he growls in annoyance.

“Hey”, he barks, shaking the pet to attention. “Have you swallowed your damn tongue?”

“No, I--”, Scud says and coughs. His voice is all raspy from not having been used the past days. “I'm sorry. I understand, Master.”

He looks up at the vampire and this time he tries to withstand the hard stare he's confronted with.

The man snorts. “Don't call me that”, he mumbles and turns around, reaching for a heavy black coat on the table in front of him. “Call me... You know what, don't call me anything. Just don't speak at all until I ask you to. Got that?”

“Yes”, Scud hurries to answer. He watches him smoothly glide into the dark fabric. He wonders why most vampires are fascinated by the color. If he was a vampire he would already be fed up with the dark of the night. Maybe it's some primal instinct, like an adaption to the surroundings to show their belonging to a group...

“...will be back by sunrise.”

Scud jumps when the sound of a heavy door being rather roughly slammed shut shakes him from his daydreaming.

He needs to stop doing that. At Anton's mansion it had been rather easy to just space out and let everything happen. He was never asked anything. When someone wanted him he took him, easy like that. He wonders if his new master just didn't try to drain him yet because he is still wounded or if there is any other reason he can't think off.

Suddenly he realizes that he's alone and his new master didn't tell him what to do. He said something about an assistant dropping by.

“I'll just wait then”, Scud mumbles to himself, the sound getting lost in the wide empty room.

 

**xXxXx**

 

The last time Scud talked to another human being had been before his time as a pet. At least when it's about a full on conversation, or whatever someone would call this.

The assistant his master talked about turns out to be a young blonde familiar which introduces herself as Petty Bloom. A fitting name for her but not for the business she works in. Her whole appearance seems a little unfitting. The black dress with the blood red high-heels looks forced. Scud can picture her better in a wide t-shirt and some pair of worn jeans.

The most pleasant thing about her short visit in the apartment is the way she treats him, like he is an actual person. They don't really chat but she doesn't ignore him either. Scud thinks that she probably isn't allowed to talk to him more than necessary, but he's glad about any spare conversation. Better than the uncomfortable silence of his master's apartment.

“This should fit”, Petty mumbles and holds a striped shirt against his chest to check the size. “When Mr Frost told me to get you some clothes I thought about something black and blue. I would have preferred something else of course but my opinion is of no question here.”

She gives him a quick look to see his reaction. Scud remains silent, just smiles weakly to reassure her. He wouldn't peach on her. Petty treats him nice, different than the rest of the whole world.

Just when she puts the shirt back into the large shopping bag she brought with her Scud's stomach makes a loud growl. She gives him a compassionate look.

“There is food in the fridge but wait until Mr Frost is back. He is a man of more honor than most of his kind, he won't let you starve. I'm sure”, she adds. Scud nods but the young woman already hurries over to the large white bedroom with the bag in her small manicured hands.

 

**xXxXx**

 

Deacon returns before sunset. Sometimes he dares to wait in front of the door, catching the first shy beams of sunlight before they get too dangerous for his vampiric essence. But today he is too worn out by this world to pay any attention to her beauty. The issue with Anton has just worsen the situation and even though the bastard is powerless Deacon knows he will try to come back to bite him. He will try to erase any evidence, along with Deacon and his companions.

With a wholehearted sigh he pushes the door open, endures the modern music of the elevator until he stands in front of the heavy metal door to his apartment. He stares at it's smooth surface as slowly the realization sinks in that it's not only his home anymore. It is his home but now it's disturbed by another presence.

That damn pet.

He can't stand here like that forever. Sooner or later he has to face his decision. With a deliberate push he opens the door. His decision is quickly discovered, scrambling to his feet as he sees Deacon enter. The light turns on and illuminates the room, the slightly bent figure of the pet sending strange shadows to the floor. He blinks against the sudden light. Deacon looks him over and sees that he still wears the clothes he had given him earlier.

“Hasn't Petty been here?” he asks. The boy nods.

“Yes”, he says, his voice only a low mumble. Deacon steps further into the apartment, letting the heavy door behind him fall shut. He shrugs the black coat off with a small sigh. It smells like pure bloods and false friends, something Deacon definitely has too many of.

“What are you doing here then?”

When the pet doesn't reply he turns around. The boy hasn't moved, still stands frozen in place and looks at Deacon with an unreadable expression. He feels annoyance tug at his guts and resists the urge to growl at the slow reactions of the human.

“You're allowed to speak now”, he says, carefully, as if the pet is slow on the uptake – which he probably is, as he gets more and more the impression. The blood loss must have left it's marks.

“I've waited for you”, the pet says. He sounds so undisturbed, like this is the most normal thing to do. Remaining on the same spot someone left you to wait for the person's return. Like some fucking dog. Deacon nods.

“Okay. Did she bring you new clothes? Petty, I mean”, he adds when he sees confusion light up between dirty brown strands. The pet nods but he doesn't look at him while doing so. Deacon decides this is the most awkward conversation he ever had.

“Good. Tomorrow you will get your mark, since you're mine now you will need a new one. I'll let you decide the place but have that decided by tomorrow.”

Again the boy nods. Deacon frowns but realizes he is too tired to care about this behavior right now. With a sigh he starts to head for his bedroom, unbuttoning his shirt on the way.

It is just when he feels someone follow him that he turns around. The pet stands some feet away, coming to a halt when Deacon looks him over with a puzzled expression.

“What are you doing?” he asks and doesn't try to hide the suspicion swinging in his voice.

The boy keens, a small sound tripping from his lips and he shrugs a little. “You don't want to... you know?”

When Deacon doesn't reply, just stares at him incomprehensibly, the pet starts to tug at the hemline of his shirt. Finally the penny drops.

“Oh, no”, Deacon says and shakes his head. “I'm too tired and-- No, just to get this clear: I don't sleep with humans and especially not with pets. Who knows whose venom runs through your veins, boy, that's disgusting. Just, go back and get the fuck to sleep.”

The pet nods and with a small move straightens his shirt again. Deacon watches him tiptoe back into the living room. He almost shakes his head in disbelief as he hadn't thought the human would be that brainwashed. He had heard of pets who lost their own mind and basically turned into robots, mechanically following anything their masters said but he had never seen that himself. In most cases Deacon tries his best to avoid those milieus.

When he opens the wide door to his bedroom the thought hits him that maybe he had signed up for something he never really wanted.

 

**xXxXx**

 

Scud is woken by a feet shoving his side.

“Pet”, he hears his master call. “Wake up, pet.”

His eyes fly open and his senses jump awake within a second, one of the things he had learned in the orphanage. This little trick had saved his sorry ass too many times.

With a small grunt he pushes himself up from where he had spent the night on the floor. As he scrambles to his feet he catches the look of his master.

“Did you sleep on the floor?” he asks. If Scud wouldn't know better he'd say his master wasn't used to having a pet.

“Yes”, he says and almost frowns in return. His master, Deacon is his name as Scud recalls, narrows his eyes as if he could understand the human's mind better this way. After a moment he gives up and turns around with a sigh that sounded almost like defeat.

He heads for what Scud assumes to be the kitchen. Scud follows him silently. He doesn't know this man, Deacon Frost, who seemingly took him away from his former master. He doesn't know whether he's of the same sick kind as Anton or if Deacon has different plans for him. Right now Scud can't think of any reason why he's here and, more importantly, cared for. Anton never bandaged his wounds. The nicest thing he had ever done for Scud was to free him from the gag before he choked on his own vomit.

His stomach clenches painfully when he sees the food standing on the kitchen counter. It looks like pancakes and not just simple pancakes. Scud would never forget the delicious smell of “ _Ricci's self-made butter pancakes_ ”. His mother sometimes took him to the little diner for brunch when his father was out of town.

His stomach gives an audible growl and Scud clutches his bandaged skin as if he could dampen the sound somehow. Deacon who already has the headset on again gives him a strange look. The corners of his ashen lips pull visibly down as he looks the weak figure of the human over.

“Eat”, he says simply and nods in the direction of the pancakes. “The man to mark you will soon be here and I don't want you to faint.”

As soon as he turns around Scud hurries over to the counter and pulls the plate of food near. It had been so long since he ate something besides mandarins. He takes a bite and his eyes water a little at the familiar flavor filling his mouth. They still taste as amazing as they did twenty years ago.

Now and then he glances up at his master. He is walking through the apartment, picking up sheets on a large wooden table and all the time talking to someone on the other end of the connection. His voice is calm but there's an unmistakable growl swinging with it. Even though Deacon seems to be just as arrogant as any other vampire his temper is of a calmer nature as Anton's. Scud finds that _calm_ and _vampire_ don't belong in the same sentence.

He finishes his meal in a hasty way and when Deacon gives him a quick side glance Scud licks away the last remains of syrup coating his lips. So far his new master was good to him. Almost too good and it makes Scud suspicious because Deacon has no reason to treat him like an actual person. He is just a pet after all, better cattle if anything. Life taught him to accept unexpected presents but always stay cautious. It might be a trap and the ugly truth waiting behind the pretty wrapping could be the one to snap his neck and end his pity life.

The ring of a door bell shakes him out of his thoughts. Deacon opens the door without checking first, even though it could be anyone. His memory misses the details of the last days but Scud is convinced that the circumstances under which Deacon took him away from his original master couldn't have been all too peaceful. Still it seems that the vampire is not afraid of being attacked in his own home, differently than Anton. But maybe that is because Deacon moves in different circles. Scud hopes to find out more about his new master soon.

 

**xXxXx**

 

The procedure of the marking isn't new to Scud but this time his senses aren't dulled by hunger and adrenaline. He is wide awake and feels the sharp tip of the tattoo gun press the black ink into the thin skin behind his lip at an unmerciful speed. He chose to have this mark on the inside of his bottom lip and Deacon agreed. He already had a visible mark, he doesn't need a second one to remind him of his pitiful existence as a pet every time he looks into the mirror.

When the man puts his tool down and wipes away the last remains of ink mixed with small droplets of his blood Scud flinches at the rough handling. Deacon watches him with his arms crossed, standing behind the tattooist and taking in the sight of the small glyph. Scud sees the satisfaction even his hard expression for a small moment before he catches the human's look and his eyes turn dead cold again. Scud drops his gaze. Instead he investigates the tattoos of the man who just marked him. Between black and colored tattoos he can make out a vampire glyph. It decorates his bony shoulder. He surely isn't a pet, maybe a familiar or just someone who found his raison d'être in sharing his abilities with those dead bastards.

He doesn't say a word, just packs his things and leaves as if Deacon and Scud aren't even in the room. As soon as the door closes Scud reaches up and feels the small swell around his lips. It will take some days to heal completely.

“Good”, Deacon says and the sound of his voice startles Scud. “So that is done.”

He looks Scud over. Anton had looked satisfied after Scud's marking but Deacon just looks annoyed. Now the human is his and he has to make sure that no one else touches him or threatens his life. But he now also has the right to do with Scud whatever he wants.

This time he doesn't avoid the sharp look through icy blue eyes. Whatever it is his master asks him to do in the next days, weeks, maybe even months, Scud would take it. He could take it, whether it was a kick to the rips, a bloody nose or another night full of humiliations. Verbally or physically, Scud is too blunted to care about his well-being anymore.

'Try to stay alive', a familiar voice said. He repeated the small sentence like a mantra in his head every time he felt like giving up, giving in and turn into one of those dull dolls like he had seen seem them at Anton's parties. Scud wouldn't turn into one of those dead-eyed pets, standing in the corner and just waiting for the next command. He would stay alive and if he died by his master's hands he would die as the boy his mother had tried to raise, not as a vampire's slave.

A chill runs over his spine and he fights the unease making his body tense and small. Deacon should see what he has to offer, just in case.

But just when he straightened his shoulders, parting his legs a little in a subtle gesture Deacon opens his mouth and breaks the silence between them.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

Scud blinks, trying not to let the sudden confusion corrupt his clear mind he had just gotten back. His master is waiting for an answer, but does he want the truth or just something to reassure himself?

“Uhm”, Scud starts and absently rubs over his stomach. “Fine, I guess.”

Deacon tips his head like he had done after Scud woke up in the coffin bed. He takes a step closer, takes the human's chin in a careful grip and turns his head to every side.

“The bites are healing better than expected”, he mumbles, more to himself than Scud. “You can say what you want but Missouri is still the best.”

With a small nod he lets go and instead burrows his hands in the pockets of his black slacks. Scud looks up to him through the strands of his dark hair. Anton had liked when Scud had done that. Acting all innocent, like he didn't feel as when a fire was burning his abdomen from the inside.

But Deacon hasn't reacted to any of his subtle gestures so far and this time is no exception. He sniffs, the corners of his lips twitching like he is about to say something. Whatever it is, he drops it and instead takes a few steps back. Scud's eyes never leave his but he can sense his master's unease. It is something he saw only a few times and when it happened he got those weird looks only from vampires of lower grade. But Deacon doesn't seem like someone's minion. The man has a sense of power surrounding him and this means in most cases bloody brutality once his name is questioned. Scud would never question Deacon.

 

**xXxXx**

 

He clears his throat to break the awkward silence between them.

“I have a lot of work to do and I don't – you hear me? - do not want to be interrupted”, he says and bites back the annoyed huff when the boy's eyes drop as soon as he spoke.

“You don't want me to do anything, Master?” the boy asks. His voice is a little raspy, maybe he's a smoker. But the lower tone doesn't come from years of inhaling death. It has a purpose. Deacon did notice all the subtle gestures, the lip biting, the look through the lashes and the way the pet leans slightly forth, parting his legs almost unnoticeable.

But he doesn't care. The human's behavior doesn't arouse him or wakes any interest. The pure fact that this pet, this boy, is human and his body marked by countless claimings is enough to extinguish any whatsoever wish of having him around.

“You serve one purpose”, Deacon says. “You stay here and you stay alive. Nothing more, nothing less.”

With cruel satisfaction he catches the small wince running over the human's face. It's gone within the blink of an eye. Whatever Anton did to him, he had trained him well on controlling his emotions.

 

**xXxXx**

 

Deacon isn't like his former master at all, that Scud knows by now. He hasn't fed on him yet, hasn't claimed his body and hasn't tried to bend and break his mind until Scud fitted his likings.

He told him to stay alive.

It was an easy to understand command but it moved much more in him than he had expected. Or than he had wanted.

Whoever this man is, this non pure-blood with the strange but fitting name Deacon Frost, he is a different caliber than Anton was. He seems to move on veiled ways and Scud can't tell if this will make his life easier or maybe even worse.

 

**xXxXx**

 

Deacon had showed him the bathroom and with a last look told him to take a shower. Scud mumbled a small “Yes” and then entered the white tiled room. As the rest of his master's apartment the bathroom too is wide and luxurious. Vampires don't necessarily need sanitary facilities, so the only reason for this room, decorated with an almost invisible painting imitating the night sky on the ceiling and the wide ceramic sink, is purely for swank.

Scud takes an unsure step into the room as the door behind him closes, the sound of metal scraping over metal sending a cold chill run down his spine. He hates closed rooms.

With shy fingers he pulls the black shirt over his head and folds it properly. Scud was never a person of order but the past months had taught him to enjoy the little things. Like real clothes, for example.

For an awkward moment he stands in the middle of the room, naked and brushes with his hands over the bandage still covering his stomach. Deacon told him his wounds should be fine by now and that he better takes the dirtied gauze off. But it's not the fear of an infection which keeps Scud from revealing the skin to fresh air. He is scared of what might lie underneath the fine white fabric. His memory hasn't returned yet and a dull feeling in the back of his mind tells him it's better this way.

With a shaky breath he starts to pull off the sterile tape keeping the bandage closed. It takes some minutes before he manages to wrap the fabric off completely. The spicy smell intensifies while the pile of gauze on the floor gets bigger and bigger. At last he carefully pulls a white thin blanket off his stomach. It's covered in some sticky paste and stings in Scud's nostrils. With a disgusted noise he lets it drop onto the pile of used gauze.

He feels the scars before he sees them. Thick and bumpy they press against the tips of his fingers. Scud's eyes water and he has to hold back a keen. But he has to see. There is a floor length mirror next to the sink. When he steps in front of the clean surface and takes in the full damage he is no longer able to hold back the whimper. The skin of his stomach is destroyed and the longest scar almost reaches up to his torso. The new thin layer of fresh skin shines in an angry pink, creating a brutal contrast against the rest of his pale complexion. With a shaky finger he traces the way of one scar. He can almost feel Anton's claws break through his flesh and spill his blood. Ironically the glyph hadn't been damaged. The sight of the small black tattoo makes him have the urge to cut that part of his body too. But his new master surely wouldn't approve of any further damage. Scud wonders if Deacon knows of his scars, since vampires often have a distaste for permanent marks.

His eyes land on the small band-aids covering his arms, legs and neck. Almost in trance he pulls them off, revealing more damage to his blurred vision. Gladly the bite wounds healed better than the cuts on his stomach. Most of them are barely visible. As he turns his head a little Scud notices a dark spot under his left ear. It's not a bite mark, there are no punctures of razor-sharp fangs. He carefully touches the spot. It looks like a hickey. Scud frowns but his mind is too numbed to form any intelligent conclusion.

After he investigated the bite marks, scars and bruises decorating his body he notices the dark shadows under his eyes, his thin hair and his jutting rips and hip bones. Suddenly he understands what people mean when they talk about “being a mere shadow of one's former self”.

He steps into the shower. Anton had never let him shower. Sometimes he had allowed him to take a bath but the conditions he had to fulfill for that privilege... He turns the water on, as hot as possible and lets the memory be washed away. The water feels good against his skin. Scud braces his arms against the wall as his vision blurs once again. His eyes land on the fresh scars of his stomach. They will never fade and they will always remind him of his failure, pressing the thorn of guilt deeper into his heart everyday.

For the first time in months Scud lets the wall he had built around his mind break down and a wave of emotions crashes around him, making his knees shake so violently he slips down onto the floor. As the glass surrounding the shower dampens Scud leans against the tiled wall, letting the tears mix with the hot water pouring down on him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uhm, I think I accidentally deleted someone's comment last time. Sorry for that, originally I wanted to reply to that and thank you and say I'll try to keep it up.

He splashes some cold water into his face but his eyes still look a little puffy. Hopefully Deacon won't notice. Scud huffs. Of course he will notice, the way he always looks him over as if Scud could drop dead any second. But maybe he has the courtesy not to mention it.

With a last look into the mirror Scud rubs over his face and sighs when he realizes the shower had done nothing to get rid of the tiredness written all over his features.

The door is still closed. Even though he must have spent some time in the bathroom already Deacon hasn't checked on him yet.

He must trust him in some way. Scud thinks of all the possibilities that lay practically sprawled out in front of him.

He could shatter the mirror and cut his throat with the glass. He could hang himself on the door knob or drown in the bathtub, hitting his head on the ceramic edge before to make sure his body's reflexes don't betray him.

But Scud doesn't want to die. Even under Anton's brutal hand he never had the wish to end his life. All he wants is to get away from the darkness of the night and return to the light of day. He wonders if he will ever see the sun again before someone else ends his life.

 

**xXxXx**

 

When the pet finally steps back into the living room and into Deacon's sight the first thing he notices is the relief washing through him, even though it is just for a split second. Then the pleasant feeling is replaced by anger.

“You took your time”, he snarls but doesn't lift his eyes from the sheet he had been staring at the past hour. It says something about a defect power line in one of his clubs. He doesn't care. Petty is the one to take care of all those trivial affairs but as most of his familiars who are not able to hold a gun steadily she comes usually when the sun has risen.

“I'm sorry, Master”, the pet says. He has stopped a few feet away from Deacon. His bureau and the living room are only separated by a thin dark glass wall. Usually there is no one to disturb him in his works, so he never saw a reason to built an own room for it.

The address suddenly makes him angry, downright furious. It is just another reminder of the pet's presence. As if the shy looks boring into his back as soon as he turns around wouldn't be enough. He is Deacon Frost and he will not let a human control his mood like this.

A little too quickly he stands up and the chair he had sat on almost falls over. The pet flinches and Deacon can see a hint of fear light up in his eyes. He notices the small red lines disturbing the deep blue. Has he cried?

The sound of his mobile phone rips him out of his thought. The ring tone is Quinn's. Deacon takes a deep unneeded breath and picks up.

“What is it, Quinn?” he asks. A quick look in the pet's direction makes the boy drop his eyes and bow his head. Still Deacon feels something like paranoia tug at the back of his mind and he changes into his race's language. Quinn and Mercury are on their way with the reports of the night. So far everything had stayed calm, no disturbances in his clubs and none of his familiars had been murdered the past days. At least not in a more dubious way than always.

As soon as he hangs up he realizes that Quinn and Mercury still know as much as nothing about the delicate situation he has gotten himself into within one single night. Now is as good of a time as any to tell them. Maybe he should just get that done and off his mind too.

He turns around, not surprised to find the boy still standing on the same spot as before.

“In a few minutes my two companions will be here. While they are in the apartment you will stay in my bedroom, keep the doors closed and pretend you're deaf. You understand me, human?”

“Yes”, the pet answers, straightening a tuck in his shirt which isn't there. Deacon remembers the wounds he had when he brought him home that night.

“Have you taken off the bandage, as I told you?” he asks. The pet nods. “Have the wounds healed well?”

“There are--”, the boy starts. He clears his throat, swallows and Deacon can see how he is struggling to keep his self-control. But his fingers tremble nonetheless when he tugs at the hemline of his shirt. He looks down.

“They have healed but there are scars”, he manages to say but his voice breaks a little at the last word. Deacon can see how anxious he is. He probably fears that Deacon might disapprove of his marks, but truth is he doesn't care much. And he also doesn't care about the human's unease, so he just nods.

“Bedroom”, he says, already heading back into his bureau. “And stay there.”

 

**xXxXx**

 

When Quinn and Mercury enter the apartment a few moments later Deacon tries his best to keep an even expression.

“I need to talk to you about the human”, he starts.

Mecury snorts. “You mean your little pet. That's okay, Deac, we all have our needs. No one here will judge you.”

She smugly smiles up at him from where she has settled on the couch. Deacon feels anger boil up inside of him at her words.

“Well, I know perfectly well about your needs, Mercury”, he snarls. “But that's not why the human's here. I took him with me because he is our only insurance that Anton MacHorvath won't come storming through that door and stake us all. Apparently the deal I had with him failed because he found out the target was a pure blood. If it wasn't for the pet he would have told Dragonetti by now.”

“Can't we just kill MacHorvath?” Quinn asks. He stopped playing with his braids when Deacon mentioned the staking.

“No”, Deacon says and once again he wonders why exactly he had turned Quinn back then. Definitely not for his good ideas. “If we tried to kill him now all of his allies would throw a fit and try to get rid of us in return. The only thing we can do is try to get out of his way and stay low for the next time.”

“And how long will that be?”

With a fluid movement Mercury rises from the couch. The white dress which covers her slim figure doesn't fit the hardened expression on her face.

“I say we kill MacHorvath and that pet now, just get rid of them both!”

“Mercury”, Deacon starts and his voice drops while he tries not to worsen the situation with an emotional outburst. “I already told you how dangerous the situation is...”

“The situation you brought us into”, she hisses. The tip of her sharp fangs glister in the dim light of the room but visibly enough to make Quinn lean forward on the couch and Deacon growl warningly.

Just when he opens his mouth to reply a sound from the direction of the bedroom makes all three turn their heads. Mercury glances over to Deacon.

“He's here, isn't he?” she asks, a vicious smile pulling her pale lips apart. Before he can move Mercury jumps over the couch and races to the bedroom.

“Mercury – no!” Deacon yells. He runs after her but it's too late. The doors are wide open and he can see the pet go down, Mercury standing over him.

 

**xXxXx**

 

When the doors abruptly open Scud has for one second the paranoid thought that Deacon somehow noticed he sat down on his bed. But it isn't his master who storms through the door. It's a woman. Scud jumps up from the bed and opens his mouth to say something, anything, but a kick to his chest presses all the air out of his lungs. He gasps, stumbling back and clutching his chest while his lungs fight to get back some of the much needed air.

He has no time to understand what just happened, a hard slap across his face throws him off balance and Scud slumps to the floor. There is a sharp pain shooting through his tongue and then he can taste iron.

As his mouth fills with blood the voice of his master drowns out the wild screaming of the woman. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Deacon tackle her.

'Don't spit out, don't dirty the carpet. Swallow it down', Scud thinks. But the warm fluid makes his stomach twist and turn and then he retches and all of the blood splashes to the floor. His vision blurs as the weirdly pink puddle in front of him runs through his fingers pressing into the marble.

Suddenly all other noises in the room disappear. The only sound is the rapid beat of his own heart. Scud feels a clutching cold climb up his body as the puddle on the floor gets bigger and bigger until he is almost drowning in a sea of his own blood. There is a scream far away and it speaks sheer horror. It takes him a moment before Scud realizes it's his own but his mouth doesn't move. It's in his head, just like the voice whispering low threats and the hand carving deep into his flesh.

Scud, still on his arms and knees, reaches down with one shaky hand to brush over his stomach. When he pulls it back it's covered in blood and bits of guts. His own guts.

The scream gets louder until it fills every corner of his body and mind. Then the world around him turns black.

 

**xXxXx**

 

When the door bell rings Deacon all but tears the door open. Missouri doesn't even blink, just stares up at him from where she stands, still in her night dress. Even in a situation like this, Deacon notices, her face is painted with a perfect mixture of mascara and lip stick.

“I hope your precious toy is dying”, she snarls. “Otherwise I'd wonder where you take the courage from to call me in the middle of my only free night since thirty years.”

“It's really important”, Deacon says tersely. “I think he has a shock or something.”

“Or something”, Missouri mutters as she walks past him and heads straight to the curled up figure of the pet laying on one of the couches. She sits down next to him, brushes some strands out of his face and whispers to him in a low voice. Deacon stays next to the door. After he had managed to shove the hissing Mercury out of the room, tightly held in Quinn's embrace, he noticed the shaking and coughing body of the human on the floor.

He watches as Missouri pulls a tiny casket from he purse. She takes out a blue pill and puts it into the human's opened mouth. Deacon can see the unease in the boy's face as he swallows the small thing.

“Now let me take a look at your tongue”, she says. The boy sits up and obediently shows her the large cut which had led to the amount of blood which is still decorating the bedroom's floor. She nods.

“This will take some days to heal but it's nothing all too serious. Seems like you took off the bandages. Show me, darling.”

Before he lifts his shirt the pet throws Deacon a shy look. Missouri must have noticed the slight panic in his eyes as she turns around and tells Deacon with a nod of her head to leave them alone. He clenches his jaw in frustration but paces out of the room.

If Missouri hadn't proved herself as useful he would have killed her many times already.

 

**xXxXx**

 

Scud flinches when the woman feels his scars, pressing down on them and tracing their way along his skin.

“Well, doesn't that look fine?” she says and smiles. “I seriously thought the fever would have left a greater damage. Seems like I can be wrong too...”

“What fever?” Scud asks before he realizes that maybe he shouldn't even talk to her. But the look she gives him is none of judgment, more like confusion.

“You had a fever, angel cake”, she says slowly as if Scud asked something terribly stupid. “It almost cooked your guts from the inside. Good thing Frost seems to have taken a great fancy to you, otherwise you'd be dead by now. And by dead I mean six feet under in some container outside the building.”

Scud nods. The Valium the woman had given him seems to kick in as he doesn't feel like puking out his soul anymore. The hit that vampire chick had given him brought back memories. Memories of his last night as Anton's pet.

As she brushes with a small hand over his arms, feeling every little dotted scar, Scud notices the warmth of her body.

“You're human”, he whispers. The realization makes him weirdly happy.

“Always been and always will be until the day I die.” She turns his neck to take a look at the puncture wounds over his carotid. With a thumb she brushes over the hickey under his ear.

“So you're not a familiar?”

The woman snorts and lets her hands fall back on his shoulders. She gropes them wholeheartedly and Scud whines as her fingertips press against the hardening there.

“No, I am not a familiar. I leave that filthy business to other people. Turn around.”

He slips on the couch to face the opposite direction. As she strokes over his back to feel for any concussions or fractures Scud already feels another question dance over his tongue. The Valium makes him carefree.

“What's your name?”

There is a small pause and the hands stop to move. Then they continue their slow way down his spine.

“I'm the doctor who put you back together, boy, that's all you need to know. And you are Frost's pet and that is all I need to know. Seems all fine.”

With a pat to his back she stands up. Scud notices the faint pink nightdress she wears under a stogy leather jacket. Deacon must have called her out of her sleep to make sure he is alright.

“Thank you”, he says before realizing his mouth moved.

The woman nods without looking at him and heads into the direction his master had left.

 

**xXxXx**

 

Deacon sits on his bed and stares at the puddle of blood as Missouri approaches him. He lifts his head, and frowns at her concerned expression. She stops a few inches too close to him. Her sweet perfume stings in Deacon's nose and sends his sensitive nerves standing on edge.

“You want this boy to survive?” she asks suddenly. Deacon looks at her, trying to read in her face but fails.

“Yes”, he simply answers instead. “I need him.”

“Good thing you're able to admit at least that, shithead”, she comments snappishly. With her hands on her hips she looks like a wintery pin-up motive. Deacon knows her since Missouri's very first night as a doctor for not only humans but vampires also. Back then she had been a beautiful young woman but her mouth had always been filthy and her manners more than rude. “If you want this boy to survive than you have to give him some more than food and a place to sleep.”

He narrows his eyes suspiciously. “What do you mean?”

“What I--? Christ, if you were a dog you'd be chasing your own tail out of sheer ignorance! I mean: do you even know his name? This boy is utterly broken. Did you know a person can die of a broken heart, hm? Of course you didn't, since you're dead cold inside yourself!”

“And you want me to do... what?” Deacon asks, raising his eyebrows to make clear how uninterested he really is in everything Missouri says. The small woman takes a sharp breath.

“I don't want you to do anything, you arrogant little dipshit. If it was for me I'd end that boy's misery with a syringe full of morphine because I wouldn't be able to just stand there and watch him slowly slip away like that.”

Suddenly she steps closer, grabbing him by his wrists. Deacon is too surprised to fight her off. It's the first time in forty years that Missouri ever dared to touch him.

“You are Deacon Frost and you are a fierce bastard”, she speaks lowly, hastily. “But if you let this boy just die I will personally guarantee that your ashes will be baked into some chocolate fudge cake and served on a kid's party with clowns and balloons and an ass full of happiness and rainbows. Do you understand me, Frost? You will not let him die!”

“Missouri”, Deacon mumbles and the smile that plays around the corners of his lips is driven by pure amusement. “When did you start to care for your patients again? I thought that was a closed book.”

He looks directly into her eyes while speaking and sees how the fire slowly dies until they return to their usual sarcastic expression. She lets go of his wrists, only the small half-moons in Deacon's skin a sign for her previous outburst and takes a step back.

“You misunderstand me”, she says. The bright smile that pulls her accurately painted lips apart and reveals the white teeth underneath has been perfected over the years and would fool anyone who didn't know her the way Deacon does. “If the pet dies it wouldn't be long until all that's left of you was a little pile of bones and ashes. Who would pay me all the extra money then? If you haven't noticed, this little purse here is _Yves Saint Laurent_ and they sure have their prices, honey.”

 

**xXxXx**

 

When the light clicking of the woman's heels comes closer Scud turns his head. He sees his master who follows the small woman. He opens the door for her and sends her away with a polite smile and an ironic wave of his hand. He couldn't see her face but Scud can imagine what kind of gesture she gave Deacon as a goodbye.

“Is she going home alone?” Scud asks as soon as the door falls shut. “It's dangerous to be outside at night.”

“It's always dangerous”, Deacon corrects him. He slowly comes closer, hands buried in the pockets of his slacks.

“Well, I certainly wasn't attacked at day by a horde of vampires.” Scud plays with a tear in his shirt. It must have ripped when he fell.

Deacon sits down on the couch opposite of Scud's. He can hear him sigh loudly. His attention is caught when the sound of a lighter being clicked open echoes through the silent room. Scud watches as his master takes a long drag from a cigarette. He knows the brand, used to smoke it himself when he still was able to decide when to smoke.

Deacon catches his gaze and this time Scud doesn't look away. That pill surely does things to him.

“Want one?”

Scud nods. When Deacon offers him the opened packet he shyly pulls a cigarette out. It feels good between his fingers, the smooth surface of the filter between his lips as he lights the tip up.

“Missouri says you shouldn't smoke, so that will stay our little secret.”

So her name's Missouri. Strangely fitting.

“Thank you”, Scud mumbles. He closes his eyes when he inhales the beloved mixture of nicotine and tar for the first time in months. As the smoke wanders into his lungs, stinging where it brushes against the cut, Scud leans back against the couch. He holds it in until he feels his chest tighten and his lungs begin to burn. Then he exhales, slowly and watches the curls of smoke rise to the ceiling. He has missed this so much.

When he opens his eyes again Deacon watches him interestedly.

“What's your name, pet?” he asks, taking another drag of his cigarette. Scud watches the length of it light up and burn down. If he wasn't so dulled by the Valium and the butt between his fingers he would have wondered about the question.

“Scud”, he says flatly. “My name is Scud.”

Deacon gives him an unconvinced frown. “Scud? Is that even a name?”

“It's my name”, he says and looks up from where his eyes had fixed a spot on the table between them.

Deacon chuckles. It sounds almost lighthearted, close to amusement and it sounds wrong.

They stay silent for a while. Scud rubs his thumb against the warm side of the cigarette and enjoys not having to do anything humiliating for it. He is sure Deacon won't ask anything of him. Otherwise he would have let that crazy vampire bitch kick his face into mash.

His attention snaps back to reality when Deacon subtly clears his throat.

“So, Scud”, he starts and it doesn't need a lot of experience to see how difficult it is for him as a vampire to address Scud with his name. “You remembered your last night in Anton MacHorvath's mansion.”

“More his basement”, Scud mumbles. He flicks the burned tip into an ashtray on the table.

“Yeah, right”, Deacon says and straightens his position on the couch. Scud keeps his slumped back. “I assume you had a rather uncomfortable time as his pet.”

“When you mean with uncomfortable being taken against your will, forced to swallow every bastard's cock and get passed around a group of hungry young vampires like a joint, then, yes, it was rather uncomfortable.”

He looks up. Deacon watches him, his expression stern. Scud isn't surprised to see no shock in his face. He probably himself saw a few times how Anton used to treat his pets. Even though the real deal was always reserved for his friends and loyal customers, behind closed doors and a curtain of discretion.

Suddenly Scud feels tired. His arms are heavy and he watches the rest of his cigarette slowly burn up without having the need to take a last drag. All Scud wants is to sleep and maybe, when he's lucky which does happen sometimes, Missouri's pill will keep all nightmares away.

But there is one last thing he has to know.

“Why am I here?” he asks, surprised by the sudden hardness in his voice.

Deacon huffs and draws a hand over his face. He looks a little tattered himself. His shirt is torn where that vampire chick had drawn her claws into and he has a long deep scratch on his neck which will be gone by tomorrow night.

“You are here because I want you to”, he says lowly, carefully but with just enough of a growl to make Scud realize that he had gone too far with that question.

He nods even though the answer could have been Anton's. What does that even mean, he wants him to be here? No one ever wanted him to be there. Why, of all people, would a vampire appreciate his companion?

But all that comes out of his mouth is a mumbled “Okay” and with that their conversation ends. Deacon stubs out the small rest of his cigarette and stands up. As he almost reaches the doors to his bedroom he turns around again.

“Don't think about running”, he says. “You said it yourself, it's dangerous outside at night. Next time I maybe won't be able to save you.”

Scud listens as the doors to the bedroom fall shut and then he's alone.

“Where should I go anyway?” he mumbles. His head starts to feel fuzzy so he sinks down onto the couch, curls up and quickly drifts off into an undisturbed sleep.

 

**xXxXx**

 

The last night is a clear memory in his mind but it still feels like a weird dream he had. Scud wakes up before nightfall. He can tell by the still locked shutters shielding the inside of the apartment from any sunlight. Scud misses the sun and how warm she had felt on his skin when he had fixed cars in Ronaldo's workshop. If his former employer wondered where he had gone? Probably not. Scud always has been one of those guys of whom people expect to just vanish one day and never return.

He stands up, stretches and takes a look around the silent room. There is still the filled ashtray on the table in front of him with the two cold cigarette stubs. As he stares at the little thing he begins to wonder what exactly the conversation between them last night had meant to Deacon.

He doesn't have much time to think about it though as the doors to his master's bedroom swing open and Deacon, already fully dressed and with his usual cold expression, steps out.

“You're up early”, Scud notices. Deacon doesn't reply, just glares at him as he walks past and heads for the kitchen. Scud ducks his head when he sees the annoyance in his master's look. So they're back to hateful stares then.

He watches Deacon open the fridge and take out a bag filled with blood. Up to now he hasn't seen him feed on anything or anyone, but vampires need their daily meal too, just like him. Still he looks away when Deacon rips the bag open with his bare teeth and starts to take large gulps from it.

A small trickle of blood runs from one corner of the mouth down to his neck. The large scratch from yesterday has already healed Scud notices. He can somewhat understand the obsession vampires have for an unscathed body. They'll never have fresh scars themselves, only the ones they gained during their human life, if they had one before.

“What happened last night”, he suddenly says and the sound of his voice startles Scud. It's icy old, such a hard contrast to the tone he had the night before. “That doesn't make us friends. I am still your master and you are still my pet. If you think this little chat changed anything then you are wrong. It's dangerous to assume the wrong things of me.”

The empty blood bag makes an obscene slapping sound when Deacon casually darts it into the sink. Scud watches him as he steps closer, the resentment vibrating off his body turning the light around them a little darker.

He stops a foot away from him.

“You understand, human?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, Master”, Scud mumbles and now he looks away. It feels as if Deacon's eyes are piercing right through him, making him shiver even though it's not cold in the room. He feels vulnerable and not just in a physical way. Last night the vampire had managed to strip him off his first layer of repression. He had given him the feeling of being cared for, even though in a rather twisted way. But it had been the nicest treatment he had gotten in months.

Now the memory is dirtied with a threat and a hateful stare. Both remind Scud of his place in his master's life.

“Good”, Deacon says. The satisfaction in his voice makes Scud sick. “Believe me, this is better for the both of us.”

'I bet', Scud silently snorts. He can feel the bitterness crawl through his veins like venom and he knows he shouldn't feel like this. It surely wasn't Deacon's intention to make him have the impression he is actually worth a damn.

As Deacon turns around he smiles at how fucked up everything is.

 

**xXxXx**

 

Mercury is wild and untamed. She always has been, even back then when she was still a human and her heart alive and pounding in her chest. It had been the main reason why Deacon chose to turn her. The irony of Mercury's companion is that she is there even though Deacon had at that point already decided for himself to never turn a human and after Mercury never again. But then she got bored and he saw himself forced to find her a decent playfellow. The only reason why Quinn is still among them and not already a rotting corpse.

Her skin is still as perfect as it has been 90 years ago. With one finger he slowly runs from her cleavage down to her navel. She moves under him like a fish in the water, fluid and smoothly. Deacon knows how her beauty can trick men into doing things they would under other circumstances never do. And he also knows that Mercury is brutal and violent behind her fine features and the seductive smile she puts on.

“Do you remember the night we met?” He draws a small circle on her stomach.

Mercury purrs and reaches down to lightly scratch with sharp nails over his thigh. “Of course I do. I will never forget that night. You had looked quite charming with your fedora, not as silly as the other men.”

“What other men?” he growls playfully. Mercury giggles and leans up to steal a small kiss from him. When she pulls back her expression has changed.

“You smell like human”, she notices and the light tone is gone within a second.

Deacon sighs. “Of course I do.”

“So he's still here? Where is he? I haven't noticed him. Did you hide him from me?”

She pushes his hand on her waist away. It takes Deacon all composure not to growl at her.

“After your last encounter I thought it would be better if you and Scud had a little break from each other”, he says. When he sees how her face slips he instantly regrets it.

“Scud?” she repeats and the disbelief is written all over her face. It is quickly replaced by wild fury. “So we're on first names now? Are you fucking kidding me? He's a human, Deacon and a pet. He's the very bottom of the food chain! How can you possibly let him just live like that?”

She knocks his hand away as he reaches out for her.

“No”, she hisses. “I surely won't let you touch me with that filthy human scent all over you!”

In one quick movement she is off the bed and grabs her blouse. Deacon fixes a small spot on the wall, silently waiting until the boiling anger inside of him has calmed down a bit. Then he follows her.

“Mercury, wait. What do you expect of me? I already explained the situation to y--”

She suddenly whirls around and he can see her fully exposed fangs. With a warning hiss she slips into her leather jacket, her eyes never stopping to throw silent maledictions into Deacon's direction.

“You explained me nothing”, she growls. “All you said is you wanted to keep the pet. You know what? Keep him, I'm sure he's a great fuck. From what I heard Anton's pets are quite well trained!”

A small cough from behind them makes both whirl around. The human doesn't stand far away, half hidden behind the door to a room. Deacon makes a mental note to himself to get that idiot a bell or something so he can't sneak up on them anymore.

He quickly looks back to Mercury. He expected her to completely lose it, jump at the boy again or start to scream and trash things. But instead the anger in her face vanishes and her features even. She starts to laugh. It sounds fake.

“Have fun”, she chirps. Deacon watches her walk over to the door and leave, not without giving him one last bright smile. As soon as the door closes behind her silence settles in the room.

“Was that my fault?”

Deacon begins to hate the sound of that small raspy voice. Maybe Mercury is right, maybe he should just get rid of the pet. So far the human had brought him nothing but difficulties and bloodied furniture. But he had taken so much already to keep him alive. Killing him would mean a defeat of his own willpower and for that Deacon is too proud.

He slowly turns back to the pet. To his own dislike the boy doesn't look guilty at all. A part of him can understand. Mercury tried to kill him and almost succeeded in her task. If he was in his place he would be relieved about her leaving too.

_If he was in the pet's place._ Deacon's face darkens at his own thought.

“Didn't I tell you to stay in the room?” he asks and his voice is sharp and cold.

“Yes”, Scud says and starts to slowly walk towards him. He is barefooted, the sound of his careful steps the only noise that interrupts the silence between his words. “But I heard something and thought there was a problem.”

“The only problem here is you”, Deacon hisses.

Scud stops in his tracks, the harsh tone clearly waking his caution. But this time he doesn't look scared. Deacon watches as the pet's eyes slowly wander down his bare chest and even further down. Scud smiles weakly.

“Were you interrupted during... something?”, he asks. “You have an erection.”

Deacon frowns at the sudden bluntness of the human. The past days it had seemed as if every word the pet spoke was carefully chosen, only facile sentences which couldn't make his master furious. The change surprises him and not exactly in a positive way.

“Yeah, I noticed that”, Deacon mumbles, suspicion written all over his face. When Scud takes another step closer to him he almost backs away, but he can stop himself just in time. Who is he to back away from a human? And who the fuck is this boy to approach him like that? Why does he let this happen? He is the master and the one in control!

Despite that he keeps still as the pet comes closer, stopping mere inches away from him. Deacon can almost taste his skin, the smell a mixture of sweat, blood and smoke. With a surprisingly calm hand Scud lets the tip of one finger lightly dance over Deacon's stomach.

“I could take care of that”, he says in _that_ tone. He looks up and locks his gaze with that of Deacon. “I can be very good. You haven't even let me show you how good I can be.”

His finger wanders further down until he reaches the waistband of Deacon's slacks. Slowly he hooks two finger under the dark fabric, dangerously close to the bulge in his crotch.

Before the pet can make another move Deacon grabs his wrists and jerks it away from his body. Scud whines in pain when Deacon turns the fragile bone which gives an audible crack. He watches Scud's knees buckle a little as he tightens his grip.

“You will never do that again”, he says darkly. His voice is completely calm. “If you ever dare to touch me again, I will break your arm.”

Another turn, a small plea spilling from the boy's lips.

“Do you understand me? I am not Anton. I won't fuck you and then let you lick your wounds in a corner. If you're not careful, I will break every little bone in your body and nothing you could offer me would be satisfying enough to pay for the fun that I would have while watching you lie helpless and begging on the floor, not able to move one little finger anymore.”

With cold satisfaction he sees the pet nod hastily. His lips are pressed together to keep himself from crying out. Deacon smiles and it feels really good.

 

**xXxXx**

 

When Deacon lets go of his wrist Scud's knees finally give in. He clutches his aching hand, trying to suppress any sound as his master walks away. When he is sure he heard a door close he buckles over, groaning against the hard marble floor. His heart is racing. For a moment he thought Deacon would rip open his throat. Luckily he just went for the fragile wrist. Scud turns it a few times, biting his lips when a jolt of pain shoots through his arm at the movement.

At least one thing he knows now.

Deacon doesn't keep him for the fucking, but he may be even more dangerous than his former master. Scud feels a cry built up in his throat and he quickly shoves a fist into his mouth, biting down on the knuckles to hold back the sound.

It had been foolish of him to think that maybe, just maybe, he had found a person that wouldn't try to screw him over.


	4. Chapter 4

The incident with the pet has made him agitated. When the cold water of the shower pours down on him Deacon hangs his head, lets it just wash away the anger eating away at his insides. He tries not to think about what happened anymore and neither about Mercury's unbearable mood swings. All he wants is to have some minutes for himself without feeling someone tiptoe after him or make him ridiculous reproaches.

And he has to get rid of that erection.

With one hand braced against the tiled wall he reaches down. A pleasant shiver runs through him when he closes his fingers around the aching flesh. When was the last time he had to jerk off by himself? It had been so long, Deacon can't even remember. In some very disturbing way it is amusing. A lot has changed since he took the human with him.

Fucking pet.

He closes his eyes and tries to shut out the world around him. Even though he had a lot of partners during his existence Mercury is still his favorite visitor. He knows her body so well and it doesn't take long until he sees her sprawled out in front of him, eager and just waiting.

The water keeps raining down on him as he starts to stroke his cock in a slow rhythm. In his mind he already explores Mercury's pale body, running a hand over her breasts, her ribcage and down to her thighs. He likes to take his time, go slow and let the tension build up until he almost can't take it anymore himself. When he pushes in she feels as good as always, pleasantly cool and slick.

Deacon groans. He shifts a little so he can lean his head against the wall. His arm knocks against the temperature regulator and the cool rain changes to a warm flow, embracing him with an unexpected warmth. The pet is warm too, Deacon remembers how exotic his finger had felt on his own cold skin.

No, why is he thinking about the pet now? He tries to shake the thought off and focuses on returning to the pleasant image in his head.

Mercury moves with every of his thrusts and rocks back on him, her fingers tightly clutching the sheets she's pressing against. His hands wander down her body to firmly grasp her slim hips, carefully brushing over her cock.

Wait, what?

Suddenly the image changes and instead of Mercury's fine features the pet looks up at him through half-lidded eyes, sweet words dripping from his lips like warm honey and pulls him in with a roll of his hips.

Deacon gasps, eyes still pressed shut. He tries his hardest to return to the original image but the warm water steadily reminds him of the human warmth of Scud. He can almost feel how the pet's body surrounds him, sending excited shivers down his spine. With every new thrust he buries his cock deeper into that slick heat that is Scud. And the young man is all his.

The orgasm hits him harsh and sudden and with a strangled groan he comes all over his hand. The water has already washed away the trails of semen when his body is still shaken by the aftermath. Deacon leans against the wall, trying to recall what just happened.

He had thought about the pet while jerking off. No, that was an accident. He is probably tired and not in full control of his thoughts. If he wasn't so worn out from the past days that would have never happened.

Which reminds him of the reason why it had come to this in the first place.

“Pet”, he hisses. He hastily turns the water off, steps out of the shower and slips into shirt and slacks without wasting any time on toweling himself. The fabric clings to his skin and leaves wet spots on the surface but he is too furious to care about that right now.

With a dark expression he opens the bathroom door and heads for the living room.

He doesn't have to search long. Scud has moved onto the couch, hands folded in his lap. There he sits, silently and probably already thinking of a new way to wreck Deacon's nerves. But he won't take this any longer. This is _his_ home and Scud is _his_ pet, not the other way around.

Scud lifts his head when Deacon comes to a halt in front of him. He looks so undisturbed, almost oblivious. Only the loose grip around his slightly swollen wrist a sign of his previous misery. Deacon wants to wipe the calmness off his face.

“Master”, Scud says. His tone is flat. He expects everything and nothing of Deacon.

“Who are you, hm?” Deacon snaps and tilts his head a little too enthusiastically as Scud begins to frown.

“I am... your pet?”

“Correct, you are my pet. I am your master. You do what I say, human and when I tell you to shut up, then you will shut the fuck up. And when I want you to stay in a room and keep the door closed, then that is exactly what you do!”

His voice got louder towards the end and now he is almost yelling, the fury quickly spreading through his veins like fire, making his head light.

“You have no idea how lucky you are. I don't fuck you, I don't feed on you... I'm not even giving you to my companions. Do you know how much trouble you make me in return? Don't you humans know nothing of gratitude?”

Scud stares at him. He looks confused, almost shocked.

“I-I am sorry, Master, I never meant to--”

“To what, huh? To annoy me? To get in my way? It's a little too late for that. Fuck, I shouldn't have saved your pity life back then. I should have left you at Anton's mansion and let you just die. Who would miss you anyway? No one. You probably have no family, no friends, not a single person in the world who would give a shit about your life! You are all alone, you have no one. Am I not right? Isn't your life just one big fucked up tragedy?”

During his speech his hands curled into tight fists and he can feel how his own nails dig into his palms. He never stopped to look at the pet while talking, took in every little change in his face and now he doesn't look confused anymore. Deacon frowns. The human looks almost understanding.

It makes him even more furious.

Before realizing he lunges forward and grabs the boy by his collar. He yanks him off the couch, bringing their faces close together. Scud's breath comes in little shaky rattles and Deacon can hear his heart thud in his chest, but he doesn't fight the hands shaking him. And he doesn't look scared. Deacon growls in frustration.

“I could make you do anything”, he hisses. “I could make you cut off your own foot if I wanted to. I could throw a little party and then every of my guests would have a turn on you and you would fucking enjoy it, if I wanted to. You are nothing against me, just a human. Nameless. Homeless. Tell me, do you think anyone looked for you when Anton made you his little bitch? Hm?”

His grip around the collar tightens. But the realization written all over the human's face doesn't give him the satisfaction he had hoped for.

“You're right”, Scud says and his voice is surprisingly stable. “No one would ever look for me. I don't have a family anymore and the only friend I had is dead. Funny, isn't it? Everyone I love dies, but I still live. Ain't I'm lucky?”

A thought hits him, sharp like a stab to the chest and he almost lets the body drop to the floor.

“Do you want to die?” he asks bluntly.

Scud swallows and nibbles his bottom lip. “No”, he says but it comes out as a whisper. “But I would deserve to die.”

“What makes you think that?” His grip loosens and Scud slips out of his fingers, falling with a huff back onto the couch. He glances up at Deacon and now he looks a little bewildered.

“Why do you want to know that?”

“Because”, Deacon says darkly and leans down to him, pressing both hands into the couch next to Scud's head. The pet presses back into the leather but their faces still are just mere inches away. “I am the master, remember? So, what makes you think you'd deserve to die? Did you kill a family's father? Did you rape a young girl? Did you push an old lady down the stairs? You humans speak so quickly of deserving death as punishment. You don't even know what death is like...”

“But you do”, Scud whispers huskily. He licks his lips in a nervous gesture. Deacon can see how his gaze clings to his own ashen lips like honey. It makes him realize how close he is to the pet, his skin only a faint dip of his head away from that wickedly promising warmth.

He feels the flesh around his deathly fangs tingle in anticipation. The human smells so good, Deacon can almost taste the irony flavor of his blood on his tongue. Only a thin layer of pale skin separates him from the delicate fluid that keeps his race alive.

Without his affirmation his nails began to turn into long sharp claws which are now digging into the fine leather. The fabric rips under his forced touch and the sound seems to shake the pet awake from his trance-like state. He tears his gaze from Deacon's lips and instead lets his eyes wander over the vampire's fine features. When his gaze locks right over his light blue eyes a small surprised huff escapes him.

“You have a scar”, he mumbles. Deacon doesn't back away when one tip of a finger follows the small trail over his eyebrow. “Did you get it during your human life?”

Maybe it was the soft touch, just a gentle press of warmth against his own cold skin or the mockingly tender voice of the pet, but something in Deacon snaps awake and the arousal turns to wrath, slickly swimming through his veins like ooze.

With a shattering roar he grabs the human by his hair and all but heists him off the couch. Scud yelps, a high, pained sound escaping his small lips. Deacon jerks him onto his feet and around the couch, ignoring the human's begging and pleading, dragging him over to one of the windows. The shutters are drawn back and reveal the perfect black night sky to his view. Under them the city of Los Angeles is going it's usual business, hundreds of people hurrying over the asphalt. None of them takes notice of the scene above them.

They come to a halt and Deacon pulls the bent form of the pet in front of him. He releases the boy's hair, some strands of hazel clinging to his fingers and with a wholehearted growl buries his claws in his shirt. With one single movement he rips the fabric open like it's thin paper. Scud gasps, almost tumbling to the side by the force of the move. But Deacon is there to grab his upper arms, squeezing them violently and keeping him turned to the window.

“Look”, he hisses and shakes the pet when the boy keeps his eyes pressed shut. “I said, look!”

Scud's eyelids flutter open and he follows the stare of his master. The clean surface of the window reflects the two bodies standing in front of them. Deacon watches him intensely as Scud's eyes wander from the distorted face of his master over to his own, flushed by panic and pain, and finally down to his stomach. The reflection demonstrates every thick scar in it's own cruel beauty. Deacon doesn't have to see his face to notice the wave of emotions crashing onto the pet, right in this moment.

“Do you see this?” he growls. His grip around Scud's arms tightens, but the boy makes no sound. „That's the difference between us, pet! I am a vampire, a creature of night. Nothing can harm me, no weapon will ever leave it's mark on my skin again. But you... you are just a filthy little human, not able to stand a chance if I wanted to kill you on the spot. I could paint your skin with showings of my claiming and it would be nothing of an effort for me to do so. So never call me mortal again, you understand? Or I will rip your tongue out to make you shut up!“

He doesn't wait for an answer or a hasty nod of his head. With a harsh shove he pushes the boy away from him, his face shadowed in disgust. His hands burn were he touched the human. Scud tumbles to the floor. His shoulders are hunched, like the hurtful words are pressing down on them and with a faint whimper he crawls over to the near corner.

There is no feel of regret when Deacon watches him press against the glass, pull his knees tightly up against his chest and bury his face in the rough denim. There is not the guilty press of a bad conscience in the back of his head when a strangled sob tears from the pet's throat, shaking his bony shoulders for a small moment before he digs his nails into his own skin to keep any sound from coming out.

Deacon doesn't feel like the cause for the boy's misery. But neither does he feel satisfied with the view.

 

**xXxXx**

 

As soon as the sound of Deacon's steps dies out Scud starts to maltreat his own head with hard hits.

“Idiot, idiot, idiot!” he hisses to himself. When a pain starts to spread in his skull he stops the self-punishment, even though the anger and desperation inside of him, mixing to a dangerous poison for his mind which could lead him to another careless step, urges him on.

How could he have been so stupid as to let himself be weighed in a false sense of security like this? The surprisingly nice treatment of his master had made him thoughtless, almost cocky. He doesn't deserve anything good like that.

Anxiously he starts to gnaw on his bottom lip. What should he do now? Deacon is already disappointed in him and something inside of Scud tells him that his new master wouldn't approve of the usual strategies he had used to sooth Anton's anger.

He hears Petty's words in his head. _He is a man of more honor than most of his kind._ Scud had never thought of the possibility that, maybe, this wouldn't be only an advantage. He is used to the fallen people, the ones without morality or shame, who would see him as a piece of meat, bottom of the food chain and utterly submissive to their commands.

What does an honorable man want? Even before his time as a pet Scud never had to think about that question. The circles in which he had moved knew nothing of respect and honor. His life has always been a struggle for survival and no method to do so had been too dirty or unmoral to scare him off.

The fact that he still doesn't know why exactly he is here is of no help for his miserable situation.

Maybe Deacon really wants nothing of him but his mere companion. Under different circumstances Scud would have laughed at himself for this. The thought alone that someone would want him, of all people, of all the facets of smut and dirt from the streets, to be around amuses him.

Scud knows of his value or more his non-existent value. The only thing he managed to be good at, after months and months of training as Anton MacHorvath's pet, is what his new master rejects the most.

“Fuck”, Scud mutters. His lip stings at the movement. When he reaches up to brush over the surface with one finger he feels a warm wetness moisten the tip. He had bitten his lip bloody.

 

**xXxXx**

 

The next days consist of a fraught silence between them. After his outburst Deacon hasn't even looked at the pet anymore. He refuses to see those eyes and take in their silent condemnation. Scud would never open his mouth to an opposition, but he is a human and, as improbably as it seems when he sits silently on the couch for hours, doing nothing but stare at a spot on the opposite wall, he has thoughts on his own. Deacon can feel his shy looks bore into his back every time he walks past him, and it drives him crazy.

Isn't a pet supposed to make his master feel better? But Scud isn't his pet, at least not in the usual sense of understanding.

Deacon begins to look forward to Petty's visits. The young familiar shows up in his apartment more often now to bring the human fresh food. He uses those chances to vanish for a few hours. Sometimes he just drives through the city, watching the night lights pass by, sometimes he visits his own clubs to see with calming satisfaction that they are still as full as before the incident with Anton. He noticed that he hasn't been on a hunt for quite some time now. There was no need to do so since his fridge is filled with fresh blood from the hospital.

But tonight his primal instincts urge him on to find a decent victim.

He chooses one of his own clubs to look for a human. Some of them aren't reserved for vampires only and this comes in handy from time to time, especially tonight.

The dancing floor is crowded, sweating bodies moving to a fast techno rhythm and his nerves are standing on edge by the delicious smell of adrenaline hanging in the air. Deacon watches the crowd from his spot in one of the dimly lit corners. It doesn't take long until he makes out his prey between all those other meat bags. A young man, not older than twenty maybe and with dark curly hair.

Deacon smiles in pleasant anticipation. The hunt has begun.

He makes his way through the crowd, passing by all sorts of sweet perfumes, hair colors and blood types. The man is alone, dancing for himself in the middle of all those other humans. He moves fluidly to the beat, eyes closed and seemingly lost in the momentum.

Deacon moves up behind him and carefully wraps an arm around his waist. The young man turns his head, his eyes are of a full mesmerizing brown, but he instantly relaxes in the vampire's gentle embrace when he sees the small smile pulling at the corners of ashen lips. He smiles in return, a gesture of empathy.

It happens every time, the small jolt of scorn blossoming from Deacon's very essence when he realizes how easy to trick humans are. It just needs a smile, a few charming words and a gentle touch and they give in to him, letting his hands roam their body and forget everything their parents told them.

No one takes notice of the two men in the middle of the crowd who move to their own rhythm. Deacon leans down and takes in the scent of the young man. He smells... human, a mixture of salt and something metallic. There is nothing special about him, nothing that would wake his interest. Deacon doesn't know what led him to this particular meat bag, but it doesn't matter. Under their thin skin they all taste the same.

After some minutes of dancing, or more rubbing against each other, Deacon has enough of the seductive play. He dips his head to whisper dark, promising words into the man's ear. With a satisfied smile he feels the shiver which runs through his body at this. With glistening eyes the young man takes his hand and leads him away from the crowd. Away from safety.

Deacon won't take him home, he never does, but the streets around the club offer enough chances for a quick meal in the shadows of the night.

They found a near alleyway and he is almost a little thankful for the human's stupidity. But it doesn't matter, nothing matters now besides Deacon's own longing need for fresh, warm blood.

When he is sure they are well hidden by the shadows of a large fire escape he roughly pushes the man against the nearest wall. In the blink of an eye he is on him, pressing the fragile body with his own against the hard brick behind him. The young man is panting, pupils widened in arousal and Deacon feels the slight tremble of anticipation turn the body against his even more alive.

This is his favorite moment.

The small window between starry-eyed trust to a stranger and the realization that the charming man is in reality a wild monster, as often described in fairy-tales and cheap Hollywood movies. For a heartbeat, right before Deacon buries his fangs in their fragile throats, something like surprise lights up in their eyes. Something like  _“So vampires do exist”_ .

He sniffs the spot where the young man's pulse thunders against the thin layer of skin, the surface glisters with sweat and some reflecting powder. Then, for the last time in this beautiful star painted night, he allows the human a shy smile, his small lips pulling apart and making his eyes shine under the longer strands of dark hair.

It hits Deacon like a freight train and for a second he forgets where he is.

The young man caught his attention because he reminds him of someone. The dark messy hair, the round trusting eyes and the oblivious smile.

He reminds him of Scud.

The wave of anger which suddenly crashes around him and pulls him down into a whirl of uncontrollable emotions lets him forget about the finesse he usually cares for. His fangs slip out of the flesh and a growl, coming from the depths of his chest, tears free from his throat. The young man's smile fades. He opens his mouth to a scream but Deacon knows this part, knows what always happens after his favorite moment is over.

A hand shoots up to cover the man's mouth and another holds his shoulder still as Deacon leans down and sinks his fangs into the warm living flesh. He can feel him fight, press against him with all the strength his arms could offer. But not even a grown bull could overpower Deacon. It's a breeze to hold the human in place while warm blood pours out of the puncture wounds, into his mouth and over his chin.

Deacon moans against the flesh. He tastes better than he expected, there is a faint, undefinable note running in his blood. It wakes a memory in the back of his mind but he can't figure out what it is...

Suddenly it feels as if the world around him begins to spin. With a grunt Deacon releases the still bleeding neck of he human. His hands begin to tremble and they slip down to the young man's arms, clutching them more for balance than for anything else.

He can hear him beg, whimper to spare his life and let him go. Deacon shakes his head but the world is still turning. His vision blurs and sharpens and his mouth begins to burn like it's on fire. Finally he remembers the faint metallic taste. It's silver. Why didn't he notice this? The young man must have gotten in contact with some kind of powder. That's why his skin glistened so weirdly.

He pushes him away.

“Go”, he growls. His knees give in a little as an acid-like burn starts to spread through his veins. The brick walls reverberate the echo of hasty steps through the alleyway before the sound gets drowned out by a high-pitched noise inside of Deacon's skull. He clutches his head, trying to focus and drown out the paining noise. But he is too far gone to have much control over his senses anymore.

 

**xXxXx**

 

With each visit Petty stays some minutes longer. Sometimes she even sits by Scud and waits until he has finished his meal. But only when Deacon isn't around, or  _Mr. Frost_ .

While he enjoys the sandwich she brought him, chicken with some mustard sauce, she looks through a pile of sheets. Deacon surely wouldn't approve of having them sit so close to each other, especially not while Petty is reading important papers about his business.

He swallows the bite in his mouth, his stomach giving a slight twitch. After all this time of starving and getting only fruits to eat his body still isn't used to real food. The first times he even threw up when he scarfed his food down too quickly.

“Can I ask you a question?” he starts and watches her ruffle through some more papers.

“Mhm”, she mumbles, a look of concentration on her face, but Scud knows by now that Petty's multitasking abilities are impressive. Probably one of the reasons why Deacon engaged her.

“Why do you work for my master? You don't seem like a person who longs for the existence of a vampire.”

She stops writing small notes on a block to her right and lifts her head. Scud thought she would maybe tell him to stop asking or even stand up and leave the apartment. Petty is very clever and probably capable of far more than Deacon thinks. Or maybe he knows and that's why he only lets her do simple stuff, like checking the cash receipts of his clubs or sitting at the reception down in the hall of the building.

But he surely didn't expect her to answer him with what sounds like purest honesty.

“I'm not sure”, she starts. With an almost thoughtful move she puts down the pen in her hand. “I was looking for a job as a secretary and somehow I found my way to one of Mr. Frost's clubs. It was... quite the experience.”

At this memory her eyes get a little glassy, like she is remembering something uncomfortable. With a blink she returns to Scud.

“But, to my own luck I guess, it was Mr. Frost who was watching over the club that night. I had no idea that he was a, you know...”

With her fingers she imitates two drawn out fangs in front of her mouth. Scud smiles weakly. “A vampire?”

Petty nods. “Yes, exactly. After that everything happened very quickly. He told me, if I wanted to work for him I would need something like a mark, a sign that showed other... vampires that I already belonged to him.”

She absently starts to rub her left wrist. When the sleeve of her dark blouse slips a bit Scud can catch the glimpse of a black glyph tattooed into her fine skin. Just like his.

“He said it would be to my own security”, she mumbles. He can see that the thought makes her uneasy but she still hasn't answered what interests him the most.

“Petty, why do you want to be a vampire? You can't even say that word without shivering.”

Petty looks at him in utter and honest surprise. “But I don't want to become something like that”, she says. “I just wanted a job and I already told Mr. Frost that I am indisposed to the thought of living forever. Who would want that? Someday you would be all alone, when all your friends and your family died. The weird thing was he understood my concern.”

After that she falls silent, her gaze still wandering into distance. Scud finishes his meal silently, even watching not to chew too loudly, as if he could scare her away like a shy deer.

He likes Petty, probably because she is kind of a slave too, like him. They both belong to a man who sees nothing but cattle in them, cattle that is able to manage his business or just annoy him to the very bit. When she stands up to leave he feels something like disappointment tug at his guts. As soon as Petty is gone he will be all alone again. Alone with his thoughts and with the silence of his master's apartment. But he doesn't want to make it too difficult for the young woman.

After all, they are both struggling to survive.

 

**xXxXx**

 

_Josh is woken by a pair of loud voices. Through the haze of sleep he can make out that of his mother, but there is a second one. It belongs to a man and he speaks very hastily._

“ _This is madness!” he yells and is quickly hushed by his mother. She speaks to him in a lower voice as to calm him down. Josh can hear an angry huff. “Don't try to shush me like a little kid! You know I'm right. He won't come back, Eli. We have to leave, now!”_

_Josh pushes the blanket aside and slips out of his bed. With careful steps he tiptoes over to the door and peeps through the small slit. His mother never closes the door completely._

_The man has his back turned to Josh but he recognizes the short brown curls as those of his uncle Ben. He already wants to open the door to run out and hug him when Ben turns around. His face is distorted in anger and frustration. Josh has never seen him like this before. Usually his uncle is a very cheery guy who likes to throw him over his shoulder and whirl them both around until the whole world is spinning._

_But today he looks like a different man._

_He rubs over his mouth in a nervous gesture and his gaze goes into the distance. Luckily he hasn't noticed Josh. When he turns around to his mother Josh's heart makes a small relieved jump._

“ _Peter has been gone for a week now”, he starts. His voice sounds pained. “Eli, we have to consider that he's dead.”_

_Now it's his mother who gets loud. “How can you say something like that?” she hisses. Her arms are crossed over her chest and her face darkens in stubbornness. Josh can see the small wrinkle between her eyes which she gets every time she is upset. But today it's not just the wrinkle that worries Josh. Ben mentioned his father. What does that mean? He's on a business trip, like so often. Why would his uncle be so worried and even say he's dead?_

_Josh can feel his breath quicken. With his small fingers he grabs the door knob and carefully opens the door a little wider. His mother and Ben are too occupied to fixate each other with angry glares to notice the child._

“ _Peter has been gone for a week or even two before, that's nothing unusual. Maybe he had a breakdown and no cellphone. You know how he is, he wouldn't call anyway.”_

_Suddenly his uncle lunges forward and grabs his mother by the shoulders. He shakes her and her angry expression turns to that of surprise._

“ _Stop playing dumb!” Ben yells. Finally he stops shaking her but his fingers keep digging into her flesh. “We can't wait any longer, Eli. Peter fucked up and who knows what or who is on our trails now? Goddammit, think of your boy! You have to get out of here before it's too late.”_

_From his hiding spot Josh can see the face of his mother in the dim light of the kitchen. He can see how the surprise turns to understanding, and finally acceptance. But she still looks so sad._

“ _I know”, she mumbles. Suddenly she looks old, like she aged ten years within the blink of an eye. Josh feels his heart sting at the sight. He has never seen his mother being so sad before. His legs almost pain with the urge to run out of his room and hug her tightly and tell her everything will be alright, even though he doesn't know what is wrong._

_Gently she brushes off Ben's hands on her shoulders. “But he is my husband.”_

“ _And you are my sister”, he says and his voice got a pleading tone. “I won't leave you behind, Elizabeth. And if I have to drag you out of here in bonds, you will come with me!”_

“ _No, I won't”, she says with a stable voice. Suddenly she begins to smile weakly. With one hand she reaches out for Ben and tenderly strokes his cheek. “I will stay here and wait for Peter. Tomorrow I'll call Madge so she can pick up Josh. But tonight you will go home, pack your things and leave this town together with Betty and the girls. And you won't call and you won't look back because this is the best for all of us.”_

_Silence settles in the small kitchen. Then Ben grabs his mother and pulls her near. Josh watches as she holds her brother close, gently stroking his dark curls while he buries his face in the fabric of her shirt. Josh has never seen his uncle react so emotionally. The hug lasts only a small moment, then he frees himself from her loose embrace and storms out of Josh's sight. When the front door slams shut Josh realizes that his uncle is gone._

 

**xXxXx**

 

His eyes fly open when he hears the loud thud. Within a second Scud sits bolt upright on the couch on which he had fallen asleep. He takes a look at the clock hanging over the kitchen counter. It's almost 4 am. Hasn't his master returned yet? He rubs over his eyes and tries to get rid of the last haze of sleep which befogs his mind.

Then he hears a faint groan. Scud stops in his tracks. He stays perfectly still until he hears another moan, louder this time. His heart begins to race and he stares into the dark of the apartment.

What should he do? Is he still dreaming? Please, let it be a dream. But what if not? What if there is someone or something inside of the apartment and ready to jump at him the next second?

But the noise doesn't come from the inside of the apartment. It comes from the wide balcony behind the couch Scud still sits on. He slowly turns around, silently curses when the leather makes a small squeaking sound and stares through the opened window into the black of the night. At first he sees nothing, just the small swimming pool with the smiling rubber ducks dancing over the surface, faintly illuminated by a handful of lit windows on the side of the opposite building. But then the shadows to his right begin to move. It looks as if they would release a part, callously letting it drop to the gray concrete floor of the balcony. Scud already begins to believe he is dreaming when the shadow moves and then he sees him.

“Deacon”, Scud mumbles. He's up from the couch and out on the balcony within a second, crouching down next to the crumpled figure of his master.

He is shaking under Scud's fingertips, as if his body was taken by a fever. The next moment seems awfully long, time stretched like goo and Scud kneels next to his master, feeling completely numbed by the view.

But then his senses jump awake again, a jolt of energy running through his body and mind. He rolls the unconscious vampire on his back. There is blood all over his chin and his mouth. Scud has no time to think who's blood that is, he hooks one of Deacon's arm around his neck and drags the limp body over to the balcony's entrance.

 

**xXxXx**

 

„ _What's your name?“_

_Josh looks up from his mashed potatoes with sugar peas and up into the faces of the boys next to him. They are taller, probably older and one of them at least twice his weight. Josh notices the interest with which they look his small thin form over. Like they have found their prey._

_When Josh doesn't respond the boy who asked him, he has very short hair and green eyes and his hard look reminds him of Officer Lennon, reaches out to punch his shoulder. Josh makes no sound, even though the force of the hit almost pushes him off his chair._

“ _What's your name, asshole?” he asks, louder this time and the sound makes some of the other kids turn their heads into their direction._

“ _Mom said”, Josh begins with a small voice, “it's not polite to call someone that.”_

_The three boys look at him for a moment, surprise written on their faces. Then they start to laugh and Josh feels a hot jolt of anger shoot through his chest._

“ _What? Asshole?” the boy laughs. He starts to repeatedly punch Josh's arm and completely ignores the smaller child's complaints. “Asshole, asshole, asshole!”_

_Josh tries to fend the hits flying his direction off, but now the other two boys join in and they stand around him in a half-circle, punching and laughing._

_The anger in his voice soon dies out and what stays is a faint mumble of words, interrupted by tiny sobs._

_Josh doesn't like the orphanage, he wants to go home again._

 

**xXxXx**

 

It's less of a waking up then a slow drift through the thick clouds buzzing his mind. He doesn't know how long exactly it took him, but when he finally gets a stronger grip on consciousness, noticing the ache in his limbs and the burn of his stomach, Deacon would gladly let go of it again.

His mouth is dry, his lips feel numb and there is the faint smell of blood and bile hanging in the air. With eyes still closed he reaches out with a weak hand to feel for his surroundings. His fingertips brush against a soft surface which slightly gives in when he presses against it. One thing he knows for sure: he is not in his coffin.

A voice inside of his head tells him to open his eyes, to inspect his environment and get up, in case of an attack. But every muscle in his body protests with a sharp sting as soon as he tries to move.

It takes way too much effort to open his eyes. He is surrounded by darkness, the first good thing he wakes up to. With all the strength he manages to come up with he pushes himself up on his elbows and feels again for the curtain-like fabric around him. He pushes it aside, and to his surprise he finds himself in his apartment, instantly recognizing the ground he lays on as one of the dark leather couches of the living room.

His arm begins to shake like a weight is pulling it down and he almost wants to drop back into the darkness again when a movement out of the corner of his eyes catches his attention. He looks down to the floor. To his feet lays the pet. The human is curled together to a ball, arms tightly wrapped around his waist and knees pulled up to his stomach. Deacon already begins to think he might be hallucinating when Scud's eyes flutter open. He looks up, sees his master and... begins to smile.

“You're awake”, he mumbles, voice roughened by sleep.

Deacon watches as he uncurls and pushes himself up on stiff arms. The look of concern in his eyes confuses him. Scud shifts unusually close and investigates his face with what he would describe as  _worry_ .

“You were pretty messed up last night”, Scud begins to tell. “I honestly thought you wouldn't make it, especially not when you began to vomit blood in buckets. And then you got all hot and I didn't know what to do, so I made you a cold application but the ice practically melted away. And then it got day and I was so paranoid the shudders wouldn't go down, that's why I built a fort around you and waited... And – no, you're awake now. That's good.”

Deacon watches him while Scud sums up what happened after he knocked out. His expression constantly changes from worry to fear and back to worry. By the end of the report his bottom lip is slightly reddened from the maltreatment of being constantly gnawed on. Deacon must be openly staring at him with a rather displeased expression because the color slowly fades out of Scud's face.

“I-I hope you don't mind that I... but – couldn't just leave you there. So I had no other choice but to touch you and -”, he stammers nervously. The worry in his eyes turns to panic, the hands in his lap curling to tight fists.

“I'm sorry, Master”, he whispers in a breaking voice.

It takes Deacon another moment until his mind manages to get a hold of the situation, realization lazily dripping in like water off a leaking faucet.

“You”, he croaks. His voice is disturbingly raspy and each word hurts in his throat. Deacon tries to cough the roughness away but that only worsens it. Still he manages to form the first coherent sentence since his wake-up.

“You saved me”, he slowly says. Those few words, so pure and innocent in their meaning, sound so wrong coming out of his mouth.

But it's true. The pet – Scud – saved him. He could have left him on the balcony outside to bristle and burst in the deathly beams of sunlight. This day could have held the promise of freedom for the human, a chance to escape and not only the violent hands of his master. But he stayed and Deacon can't even begin to think about any logical reason for this. He needs to hear it.

“Why?” he asks. “Why did you do that? You had no reason to save me. Not after...”

After what? The hurtful words, the bruises decorating his body, the humiliation and degrading of his very existence? Or the marking, the claiming of a life which isn't his and shouldn't be his?

Deacon is kind of surprised by the heavy weight of understanding pulling him down and making him almost feel... guilty.

Scud looks at him with the same surprise and confusion.

“I don't know why”, he starts and the insecurity and fear in his words is practically tangible. “It's just – you are my master and I am your pet.”

“That's your explanation?” Deacon sounds probably only half as baffled as he really is. “ _You are my master and I am your pet_? That's it?”

He shouldn't press the scared boy into the corner like this and Deacon is convinced Scud looks worse than him after those few minutes.

“Master-”

“Stop this bullshit! I asked you a question, so answer it.”

“You're good to me”, Scud finally says, but the words are shy, like their meaning could offend Deacon. Which it does.

“I am not good to you, pet”, he growls. With a quick, too quick, movement which sends the world around him rotating he swings his feet over the edge of the couch and leans forward to Scud. The human leans reflexively back, head bowed as to cover his throat. “I may not be as much of a sadist as MacHorvath but I am not--”

He presses his lips together in annoyance. What is he doing? Is he really trying to convince the pet that his life was still a live tragedy? That it may have been the wrong decision to save Deacon because it won't get any better?

“You only say that because you're so fucked up”, he snarls. “What do you even know about good and bad treatment? Has there ever been a time when people treated you with respect?”

With each word Scud's shoulders hunch down a little more, but Deacon doesn't stop. He can't.

He leans even closer in, his ears filling with the sound of quickly rushing blood and a fearful heartbeat. Scud's breathing fastened, the muscles in his arms stiff like he is waiting for a hit. But Deacon doesn't need his hands to make damage.

“Listen, pet.”

He is about to say something, something terribly hurtful and degrading because that's what he can do best. Remind people of their places. But the words get stuck in his throat, so suddenly he sits with a slightly opened mouth there. Whatever he had wanted to say, it had the intention to break Scud further. But that's not what he wants, and it confuses him, because he  _shouldn't_ care about the pet like this.

The pet who had saved his life, even though it meant to keep his own as a slave. Deacon's head begins to spin. With a groan he palms his eyes to shut out the little light that illuminates the room and the hunched form of the pet.

“Are you okay?” Scud asks slowly.

Deacon sighs. “Why would you care?”

Yeah, and why would Deacon care for him? How comes he wants an answer from the pet if he hasn't one himself?

The ache in his own limbs reminds him of something.

“How's your wrist?”

Scud looks up at him in surprise. “Master?”

“Show me”, Deacon commands and holds out his own hand. With an unsure shift Scud stretches out his arm, showing Deacon the still slightly swollen wrist. When he closes his own cold fingers around the fragile bone, Scud whines almost inaudibly. He brushes with a thumb carefully over the slender thing, feeling the heartbeat thunder against his skin.

“I shouldn't have done this”, Deacon mumbles.

“It's okay”, Scud replies too quickly. “It's not broken and it almost doesn't hurt anymore.”

Deacon sighs heavily and his grips tightens for a second before he remembers Scud's unease.

“That's not the point”, he says, his voice sounding not only hoarse but also incredibly tired. “You wear my mark, that means I'm supposed to take care of you. But instead ...”

Instead he had done the same cruel things his former master had, only that Deacon refused to take what Scud had offered to him. But whether his offering had been one of free choice or just an act of repeatedly graven behavior he would never know.

“You shouldn't be afraid of me”, Deacon growls, the anger directed more towards himself than the pet. “Do you understand now why my treatment isn't _good_? It's anything but that.”

“But I don't mind, master”, Scud says, his voice softer now. “Because you are good to me, in your own way. You let me shower, give me food and a place to sleep. You won't even take what I offer in return. Even though that's what I'm here for after all, right?”

“But do you want it or is it just an act of courtesy?”

Scud fixates one of the buttons on his shirt and falls silent for awhile. Deacon notices he is still holding his wrist, rubbing small circles against the pulse which has gotten calmer. Strangely, he doesn't care about the touch.

“I--”, Scud begins, but his mouth closes again at the loss of words.

It isn't fair to ask him this. Deacon can't possibly expect from Scud to know what he wants and what he doesn't want, not after what happened to him. Not after what people had told him to do, to think, to say.

He decides to break the silence which takes away the air around them and pats Scud's wrist lightly, just enough to rip the pet out of his thoughts.

“A fort, hm?” Deacon muses, taking a look at the tent-like building made of blankets and sheets around him. “That's nice.”

Scud tears his gaze from the button on Deacon's shirt and looks him directly in the eyes. A small smile plays around the corners of his lips.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This took so long and I'm very sorry. Hopefully it won't happen again.

_The smell is worse than the sounds. It's a mixture of blood, vomit and something Scud doesn't even want to think about too closely. The thick air stings in his nostrils and is interrupted by all kind of noises, making his nerves stand on edge like never before, not even the hunger could dampen the sensations._

_It's like Scud has entered hell itself._

_He tries to keep pace with the man who all but drags him over the cold stone floor. His knees give in every now and then and only the rough hands holding him in a bruising grip keep him from stumbling into the next puddle of body liquid._

_'Breath, breath', he reminds himself. It's all he can do to lessen the upcoming sickness twisting and turning his empty stomach. Scud feels his throat contract reflexively, but there is nothing he could rid his body of._

_They reach a door, thick and gray, looking like it was built to keep anything from coming in. Or out._

_The man unlocks it and shoves the weakened Scud through the frame. He trips over his own feet and tumbles into the darkness of the room._

_His hands stave the fall off and the skin on his wrists rips open. Scud hisses. Even though his whole body trembles violently, from hunger, from cold, from sheer panic and fear, he manages to push himself up. His heart is racing so wildly, it feels as if it's about to burst out of his chest any second._

_With a shaking hand Scud reaches up to feel for the wounds on his neck. The skin is damp with something wet. Whether it's sweat or blood he doesn't know and doesn't really want to._

“ _Fuck”, he mutters, his voice raspy from not having been used the past two weeks._

“ _So it can speak. That's good, thought I'd have to keep the monologues up.”_

_He whirls around, staring blindly into the darkness. His eyes haven't adjusted to the shadows swallowing any form in the room yet, but then something in the near corner shifts and he can make out a pair of eyes staring back at him._

_He feels as if his mind has reached it's maximum capacity._

“ _You're new”, the owner of the eyes says. “Don't look as dried out as the other guys, not yet.”_

_The sound of something metallic scraping over the stone floor makes him flinch and back away. Out of the shadows the rest of a face appears._

“ _Sorry, those are... quite nasty.”_

_The woman lifts her arms to show him the dirty surface of a handcuff. The skin around her wrists is sticky with clotted blood._

“ _What's your name?”_

_Scud clears his throat, visibly confused by the unforseen companion._

“ _I'm... My name's Scud.”_

“ _Sharon.”_

_She doesn't reach a hand out for him. Scud can see the large scratches decorating her upper arms. He licks his lips nervously. They taste like sweat and dirt._

“ _Where are we?”_

_Sharon huffs, shrugging and leans against the nearest wall. The room is very small, the ceiling so low Scud wouldn't be able to stand straight. There are no windows and the stone floor tilts a little to the middle where a trellised drain leads further down. Scud feels his stomach do another flip and he bravely swallows down the bile jumping up his throat._

“ _At the house of our master. Think they called him Antoine or something. Whatever, it doesn't matter because I'm not one of his favorite pets. There are other names I have to remember.”_

“ _What, pet? What...?”_

_His chipped lips hurt with every word but a new wave of adrenaline immediately dampens the pain. Scud looks back at Sharon and sees the compassionate look in her eyes._

“ _Oh, Scud. Hate being the one to break it to you, man, but... you're a pet now, a vampire's personal toy. That tattoo they gave you? It's called glyph, it shows that we belong to them, that they own us. They are our masters and we do as they say, that way it hurts less, sometimes.”_

_It feels as if someone wrapped a whole roll of absorbent cotton around him. He doesn't feel the cold of the floor or hears the sounds coming from the rooms next to theirs, and neither do Sharon's words reach his brain. They settled but they make no sense._

“ _Scud?”_

_She leans a little forward, trying to read in the other human's face._

“ _Okay”, Scud mumbles. He feels a sudden tiredness crash over him. Carefully he lays down on the floor and shuts his eyes._

 

**xXxXx**

 

With a sigh he drops the blood stained fabric into the bin. Another ruined shirt. Deacon can't remember having wasted so much clothes in so little time, and that has to mean something, since blood is an essential part of his existence. He avoids looking into the mirror, Scud's worried looks have been enough of an indicator that he looks terrible. It's not like he would care more about it than necessary, but a tired expression and a weak composure always attract scavengers. Like he hasn't enough enemies already who long to see his fangs in a little wooden casket.

The reason for Deacon's bad reputation among his own race is no different than that of other outcasts. He doesn't like to follow the rules. There's no sense in encouraging a system that is plain stupid.

He draws a hand through his hair. It feels exactly the same as it did back then, when he was still a human. The times have left no visible mark on him, even though Deacon had been in some bad conditions during the years. Not everyone reacts very happy to the presence of a man who seemingly doesn't age, has a remarkable healing ability and has a mass grave in his backyard, full of drained bodies, all in different states of decomposition.

Deacon is used to be the outcast. He has never fitted in very well. The main reason why his creator abandoned him and left him to starve when he was still young and inexperienced.

“ _You're a failure_ ”, she had said and had held him down with a foot to his back. “ _Do me the favor and die_.”

But he didn't, he survived and on some days he is less happy about it. On those days, he accepts it, just like everything else, because after having lived a certain amount of time, things start to lose their meaning.

Deacon exists. At least one thing he has common with other vampires.

A look to his watch wakes another wave of annoyance. He later has a meeting with Dragonetti and his little lap dogs. Waste of time.

As he steps out of his bedroom, he looks for the pet. Scud had insisted on removing the improvised fort, which showed a surprising stability as Deacon shook it tentatively. The human had smiled when he thought Deacon didn't look, like he was actually proud of it. It was the second time Scud smiled, small though, but honest.

He finds him in the living room, accurately folding the last blankets and putting them aside to the others.

“You look better, master”, Scud says when he notices him. The addressing still makes Deacon a little uncomfortable, it feels like he's betraying a part of himself with having a pet. But Scud isn't really his pet and Deacon has a plausible reason to keep him. So maybe he should just try and get over it.

He doesn't respond, just walks past the human and watches to keep enough distance between them.

He can still feel the curve of the wrist press against his fingertips. After some time the realization of what he had done kicked in and the grip around Scud's wrist loosened until the pet carefully pulled his hand back, eyes downcast, as usual. It had been just a gentle touch but Deacon saw how tensed the human's form got as soon as he felt his master's cold skin.

The discrepancy in Scud's doing is what confuses him. He offers himself to Deacon but flinches at the slightest touch, he wants what his master wants but his eyes fill with fear when Deacon approaches him, he tries to make his master's life better, but truth is he just makes everything worse.

Deacon doesn't want to lose control over the situation and maybe do something even worse to Scud than a twisted wrist. The human wears his mark, so Deacon will protect him in any way he has to. This much of tradition he accepts.

 

**xXxXx**

 

“ _How did you get here?”_

_Sharon looks up from her nails. She has spent the last hour trying to pick the last remains of glass out of her skin._

“ _That's like asking if I remember my birth”, she replies snappishly. “I don't know, suddenly I was here. They found me, they captured me and brought me to some kind of... hall. There were cages with other humans. Men, women, girls, boys... Just when they tried to stuff me into one of that this weird guy came and took me with him. After that... well, same procedure as everyone else.”_

_On the third night Sharon had shown him her glyph. It had been tattooed right under her breasts, looking like a giant black fly in the little light they had in their cell._

“ _And you?” she asks, tilting her head in played curiosity._

“ _Like asking someone about his birth”, Scud mumbles sarcastically. Sharon pokes her tongue out at him and focuses back on her nails._

_They sit in silence, they often do. There isn't much they could talk about without getting painful despair tear at their insides. Every memory is a reminder of the world outside and it hurts to think or talk about it. Heck, even the orphanage seems like a palace compared to this shit hole._

“ _Since when are you here?”_

“ _I don't know how long. Last time I saw the sky it was clouded with snowflakes.”_

“ _Last time I checked in by Ronaldo it was April.”_

_They exchange a look. It had already been too long._

_Scud shifts a little closer to her. When the sounds around them get louder, they offer each other comfort and a voice to listen to._

“ _I thought they only put the new ones here”, he mumbles, taking a look at the gray walls. To his left he can see a nail still sticking to the rough stone._

“ _Or the ones who refuse to get their will broken.”_

_Sharon doesn't look at him. She stopped picking at the reddened skin of her fingertips and just stares at the small cuts in her nails._

“ _They can hit me, they can fuck me, they can drain me and throw me into a cell sticky with piss and blood. But they can't take this from me, not this one thing. I won't let them, Scud, I won't let them.”_

_Her voice breaks. Scud lets her be, doesn't try to shush her when a tear rolls down her sunken cheek. They fall silent after that, each one of them trying to cling to the more pleasant memories. Scud tries to think of a reason why he should stay strong. Sharon does it for herself. She does have a family outside of this, a little sister and a father who are probably waiting for her every day to come back. But she's clever enough to know that she will never come back._

_When Scud can't think of a decent reason he slumps back against the wall, hissing when he leans on his bruised tailbone._

 

**xXxXx**

 

He follows Deacon into the open kitchen, leaning onto the counter and watches interestedly as his master pushes various buttons on the microwave next to the fridge, all the time mumbling darkly before giving up with an annoyed huff.

“Something wrong?” he asks carefully. Deacon shakes his head and takes a step back.

“No, it's just... those stupid things always break so easily. I hate this. Fuck.”

He clears his throat before he speaks again. “Maybe I could, like, take a look at it? Maybe?”

When skepticism darkens his master's expression, Scud quickly continues.

“I know some things about stuff like that. Electrics, I mean. Only if you don't mind, of course, master.”

He quickly looks away, fumbling with the hem of one of his sleeves and curses himself silently. Only talk when asked, it's not that hard to understand, is it?

“Fine”, Deacon says suddenly. With a quick wave he gestures him to come closer, and Scud follows, although hesitantly.

“Do you need a screwdriver or something?”

“Yeah, that would be good. I mean-”, he stammers when he notices Deacon's expression. “Please, if you don't mind.”

Out of the corner of his eye he watches as Deacon searches through some drawers until he finds the tool and holds it up for Scud, eyebrows raised in question. He nods and takes the small thing from the hands of his master with stiff fingers. A familiar tautness is building up, but Scud tries to cover his unease by concentrating on the microwave in front of him. Deacon stands a few feet away, leaning against the counter, head tilted in slight curiosity.

“How comes you know so much about this?”

He vaguely gestures into the direction of the microwave and Scud almost chuckles at the sudden helpless expression on the other man's face, but he can suppress it just in time.

“My father showed me some things. It kind of developed to a hobby.”

“Ridiculous”, Deacon huffs. His brows are furrowed as he watches Scud take off the plastic casing. “How can someone want to deal with this voluntarily?”

“Gotta do something, right?”

“Yeah”, Deacon mumbles. “Did MacHorvath knew you could do that?”

The screwdriver almost slips out of his fingers but Scud catches it before it gets lost in the tangle of cables. He holds the tool so tightly his knuckles turn white. When he answers he leans even further down.

“No. He didn't, never even asked for my name.”

“I see.”

Scud has the urge to turn around and ask him, ask his master if he really does, if he really understands what it's like to be nameless, without identity and just a neck to wrap a collar around. But he doesn't because he is the pet and Deacon is his master.

 

**xXxXx**

 

The conversation took a wrong turn. Deacon can see how the human's form tenses and he hunches up his shoulders. He shouldn't have asked.

“You know it's not your fault.”

The words come out without his permission, suddenly they hang in the air between them and Deacon can't take them back. Scud doesn't respond directly but he can see how the human turns his head a little. Just for a second before he focuses back on his task.

“Wouldn't be so sure about that”, Deacon hears him mumble. There is something swinging in his voice. Annoyance? No, a bitter resignation, like he has been told this already multiple times, over and over again until the words lost their meaning.

Deacon wants the words to regain their meaning, and it makes a part of him yell in caution. But it's too late anyway, the line has been crossed. He could just as well go on.

“Do you really think that, Scud? Why? Tell me.”

When he doesn't respond Deacon's voice gets harder, more insisting: “Tell me, pet.”

Scud winces at the hard tone, but when he opens his mouth to respond he sounds calm, almost thoughtful.

“There were... things. Things I shouldn't have done.”

“Tell me about those things you did”, Deacon says and it sounds less like a command than an invitation. A chance to share some of that ballast.

“I betrayed and I tricked. Anything, just to keep my head over water. There are many people I disappointed and made sad, and I feel guilty... But still, sometimes I think this whole... being a pet and all, it's some kind of punishment for all the shit I've done. Like someone wants to make me pay for everything that happened.”

“Well, I may not know what this someone you talk about had in mind, but no one deserves something like that.”

“You say that as if you'd care. But you don't, right? You don't care, master.”

He almost spits the last word out, like an insult and for a second Deacon has the urge to punish him for that. Instead he just clenches his jaw and swallows his anger down. Scud is a human, he doesn't have anything like respect for him, but he saved his life last night. He should spare him this time.

“This has nothing to do with caring, but I know what it means to be forced to do something you don't want to do, never even thought about. What it means to lose control over your life and just...”

He almost chokes on his words. The silence that suddenly takes the small space between him and Scud makes Deacon realize what he just said, what he just told his pet.

This time Scud turns around and even though his face is blank, like his master didn't just confess to him, Deacon can see how it works behind the facile expression, how the dull eyes suddenly light with curiosity.

“What I mean”, he babbles, words all but stumbling out of his mouth in a weak attempt to save the situation, “is, that, it should have never been like this.”

“That's nice of you to say, master”, Scud mumbles. For a split second their looks cross and Deacon can see that Scud really seems to appreciate his words. It makes something inside of him jump, the realization that he managed to make this sad creature a little happier. His grip around the counter edge tightens involuntarily and he waits for the wave of anger brushing the pleasantly light feeling aside, but this time it keeps out.

He clears his throat and pushes himself off the counter.

“I have to go now. It might take longer. Try not to break anything, okay?”

“Yes, master.”

He ignores the disappointment in the pet's voice, at least he thinks it's disappointment, and grabs his dark coat while heading for the door. When he is just outside and about to close it behind him, Deacon dares a last look into Scud's direction.

Scud has his back already turned to him and for the blink of an eye he wants to call out to him. But what should be say? Maybe something glorious like “It's not your fault” again. No, better not. Scud lives in constant fear, let him have this small shelter.

This time he doesn't lock the door. Deacon is sure Scud won't leave him.

 

The meeting place is a big storage, that's what it looks like from the outside. They never meet at the same place twice, not since the assaults on high rank vampires have increased. Deacon is just fine with that; less big-mouthed idiots who cling to their ridiculous traditions.

He plays with the smoke of his cigarette and tries to form rings but fails miserably. So many years of smoking and he still has no idea how to do it. A familiar had once tried to show it to him but Deacon had grown impatient and simply beheaded the poor bastard. Since then no one ever showed it to him again.

Maybe Scud could show him. He wouldn't hurt him, not him.

Now and then Dragonetti's voice pervades the invisible wall he has built around himself, but he politely ignores the pure blood's rant. He wouldn't address Deacon directly anyway. He's just a non-pure blood after all, nothing really of value. A bastard. A disgrace of his own race. Deacon has been called all the names in the books and by now he doesn't care about any of them anymore.

He wonders what the pet would call him if he hadn't asked him for the formal address, which Deacon highly regrets by now. Maybe he wouldn't call him anything. Deacon can't imagine Scud speaking to him with his first name, even though it sounds nice the say he pronounces it. There's always a slight jump in the sound, like his name is something fragile that could break easily and has to be treated with carefulness. The same carefulness Scud would deserve to be treated with...

Deacon frowns a little and watches his latest, terribly weak, attempt at a smoke ring. The formless figure rises to the high ceiling and fades into nothing on it's way.

Now and then he drops back in and listens to some snatches of the current conversation. Nothing of interest though, just something about some murders in Russia. Deacon has never been to Russia, never even got to drink vodka. Quinn says it's good and that he drank plenty of it before Deacon turned him. That had erased any interest Deacon had had in the liquid.

If Scud had ever tried vodka? Or booze at all? Deacon can't imagine him lose control over himself like that, he always seems so restrained, at least when Deacon isn't threatening to rip his tongue out or something.

Even though Scud is a human and even though he is his pet, Deacon doesn't feel like his thoughts are wrong. This alarms a part of him, but he tries to ignore it. He had spent so many years trying to avoid the topic, now that he is confronted with the situation he could as well make the best out of it. But he won't touch Scud, that's no option. And the accident in the shower will always be just an accident. That's definitely something he shouldn't spent too much time on thinking about, since it makes his head spin really quickly.

The meeting ends and he rises from his leather chair to head back home. Deacon prefers to spent as little time around those pride idiots as possible.

“Frost.”

He almost rolls his eyes when Dragonetti approaches him, silently wondering what he had done this time to displease the older vampire.

When he turns around to face him, an ironic smile curls his lips. “Dragonetti, hello.”

The pure blood comes to a halt in front of him. He is about the same height as Deacon, but he still tips his chin up and studies the other man's face with sharp eyes. Always so focused on the hierarchy.

“Frost, I heard some interesting rumors about you going on”, Dragonetti says, his eyes still wandering over his form like searching for something.

Deacon starts to feel slightly uncomfortable under the investigating look but covers his unease with an even brighter smile and a curious tilt of his head. “Really? If you mean the incidents in my club than I can reassure you that everything is perfectly fine.”

“No, that's not what I was talking about.” He makes a dramatic pause and Deacon gets the impression this is where he's supposed to get the hint, but he doesn't. The corners of Dragonetti's thin lips turn downwards and a little impatiently he says: “People have been telling me that you own a pet now. I felt the need to tell you that I welcome this new state of mind of yours. After all, traditions are important. I am glad to hear that you finally embrace those.”

If Deacon's heart was still alive and pumping in his chest, it would have skipped a beat right now. People know of Scud, and there is only one person who could have told them. But Anton isn't that stupid, he knows he is in the more disadvantageous position. So why would he tell anyone?

“It's even more important for you to accommodate to this. As you know, I often get criticized for tolerating you at this table, so a little courtesy from your side is more than welcome.”

The rush of anger flooding through his body and setting his mind on fire almost lets Deacon forget where he is. He wants to scream, rip that supercilious expression off of Dragonetti's face and _fucking kill_ MacHorvath.

Accommodate? Being tolerated? What the fuck is this arrogant twat thinking? Deacon Frost isn't someone to be tolerated and he surely didn't turn into one of Dragonetti's little lap dogs. Just one second ago he had felt like controlling the situation, but that has been an illusion. He isn't in control of anything anymore. And whose fault is that? _Whose fucking fault is that?_

His expression must have darkened as the pure blood raises his eyebrow at him. When Deacon speaks, his voice is slightly trembling with building wrath.

“I have to go now. My pet is surely already waiting for me.”

 

**xXxXx**

 

_After his first night outside of the cell he finds himself curled together on the floor, breath coming in hysterical hitches. His throat feels sore and his eyes hurt but he can't stop crying. He still feels him, around him, inside of him and hears his voice repeat the same mockingly comforting words over and over again inside of his head. He retches at the memory of cold hands wandering over his skin, touching him everywhere, leaving every inch of his body begrimed and filthy._

_When Sharon places a warm hand on his shoulder he doesn't flinch and when she lifts his head and gently places it on her lap it doesn't reach him. He is already pulled into another shattered world._

“ _It will get better”, he hears her mumble, but her voice is tired and shallow._

 

**xXxXx**

 

The wake up is worse than the nightmares themselves. The first few seconds, when his mind is still caught between the haze of sleep and the violent rush of adrenaline flooding his system, quickening his breath and pace of heart until a familiar pain fills his chest and robs him from any air, Scud sees the images of his dreams painted in front of his eyes, like a negative and he can't but stare at the memory. He knows they aren't there, that it's just a projection of his mind, but it feels real nonetheless.

Back at his former master's mansion he never had nightmares. He didn't need to sleep to go through that torture.

Scud tries to rest as little as possible, mostly to forgo the images in his head that he can no longer control as soon as he closes his eyes. But sometimes the tiredness would hit him so suddenly that he had to lie down and let himself drift off into a bleak fog, the certainty that it will be a sleep full of pain and cold, dark cells again gnawing at the back of his mind.

He stands up from the couch, ignoring the tremble of his limps and takes a few wobbly steps around the room. By now he got used to Deacon's apartment. It doesn't exactly feel like a home of course, but it's the closest to it he had in a while.

What he had told Deacon, that he would be good to him, Scud meant it. And the vampire had looked like he wanted to believe it, for whatever reason. He still hasn't figured the man out. Every time Scud thinks he's close to the solution, like he would have finally found the last piece to solve the puzzle, the vampire suddenly destroys the card house that is his reality. With a snip of his fingers. Or more an unexpected gentleness, which is even worse.

He is convinced if his master would just decide on one way of how to treat him, beat him up or let him be, Scud's life would be a splitter bit easier, somehow.

But if he is honest, he likes to stand himself in the way. Because he craves this unexpected gentleness, likes the feeling of being cared for. Scud knows that it's foolish to believe in the good things, at least as him, because he already decided that it's not what he would deserve. Still, he wants to deserve it and for this he hates himself.

When the door behind him unlocks and swings open almost inaudibly his mind immediately jumps to one single thought: Deacon is back. Which also means to put on the mask again and act like the good, obedient pet that he learned to be.

It's what he can do best, the submissive part, take commands. A guiding hand is what he needed in his life, he just didn't know it before. But the past months had shaped him and Anton had made sure to leave his mark on him.

“ _This collar suits you”,_ Anton had said. _“Let's put it to use, get on your knees. That's a good pet...”_

A shiver runs through his body and he quickly hides his suddenly shaking hands behind his back, straightening his position a little.

Standing in the middle of the room like this he watches Deacon enter the apartment. As he sees his master's expression, his heart sinks. Still he forces himself to speak up, clearing his throat subtly.

“Did you have a nice night?” Scud asks, suppressing the urge to turn and run when Deacon shrugs his coat off and glares at him in silence. What has he done now?

The fabric drops to the floor where Deacon leaves it be. Scud stares at the crumpled clothes, his thoughts already racing with all the possibilities of how he could have upset his master this time, so he only notices him when he stands just a few feet away. Scud doesn't have to look up to feel the anger vibrating off the man's body. To be honest, he would prefer to never look into those icy cold eyes ever again, not like this.

He is such a damn fool.

“Pet”, Deacon says. His voice is stable, but Scud can hear the anger swinging with it. Vampires are terrible liars and not exactly in control of their rather short range of emotions, which Scud likes to forget about when it comes to his new master. “Look at me.”

It's a command and he follows.

“Master”, he says. Scud suppresses the urge to duck his head. If Deacon chooses to hit him, he would injure him in some way, that's out of question.

“Do you know why you are here?”

There is a hidden meaning, Scud can feel it, but he knows that any answer would offend Deacon. So he stays silent, wondering how many hard hits his neck could take before it finally snaps.

When Deacon understands that he won't answer his question an amused huff escapes his lips. Any other master would have punished him for this open reluctance, but he, even though his form is tensed, hands curled to fists and eyes glistening in fury, stays calm. And this scares Scud even more.

“Do you remember the night when I took you away from your master?”

Scud nods. He wouldn't be able to forget even if Deacon forced him to.

“Anton didn't treat you well and I used this to my advantage. I wanted to get him out of my way.”

Why is he telling him this? Scud bites his tongue to prevent himself from screaming “Just get it over with!”, because whatever point Deacon is trying to get, it won't have a good ending for Scud. It never does.

“Tonight I realized something... You're ruining me, pet. It seems whatever trouble is on, you would just drive me deeper into it. You can say it's not your wish to stand in my way like this, but in the end you do. People know of you when they shouldn't. Tell me, what am I supposed to do with you? Up to now it seemed as if you knew perfectly well what would be good for me. Do you know it now?”

Seconds ago his mind blossomed with scenarios of how Deacon would punish him and they all included physical cruelty. Vampires can be very imaginative. Scud can trace the lines of Anton's work with a finger over his skin. But he didn't expect this, and it's even worse than being thrashed around like a rag doll. Scud had done nothing on purpose to make his master unhappy. The thought alone seems ridiculous to him. But maybe Deacon is right, maybe he is just that fucked up.

“Do you?”

He is still waiting for an answer, and Scud can't give him one.

 

**xXxXx**

 

When he realizes the human won't answer him, Deacon lets it drop. There is no point in asking the boy anyway. He probably doesn't even know what day it is, where should he take the mind from to manipulate Deacon like this?

But knowing doesn't make it better and his hands still tremble with anger. Images flash before his eyes; Scud on the floor, weeping and trying to cover his body from hard hits and punches. Blood spilling over the clean marble and sinking into the thin seams... It would all be easier if he could just kill him.

“There's still some work to do, maybe even more now. Keep yourself occupied and try not to make further damage.”

That was uncalled for and it didn't feel as good as Deacon had hoped. He knows it must have hurt when Scud doesn't even response with a shy “Yes, master”. The pet stays silent, standing in the room with his eyes downcast like some pale statue.

Deacon knows it's time to go when the faint hint of an apologize lies on his tongue.

 

**xXxXx**

 

People have often told him that he's a burden, that he's no good. After some time Scud stopped listening to those voices. In the end, they were all the same. He accepted his life as it is and he accepted himself. Couldn't do anything about it, right? But hearing it from Deacon, not even from his master, but from Deacon, tore another hole into that wall around his mind. It's gotten thin, and with each passing day Scud can feel himself be dragged closer to reality.

He didn't ask for a savior or a knight in shining armor who frees him from his misery. And he didn't get one, but he got Deacon Frost. A man so confused and far from knowing the first thing that he doesn't even realize what he's doing to Scud.

Over the months Scud learned how to deal with all kinds of abuse. He learned to shut his mind from all what was happening around him and lived inside of his head, where it was quiet and nothing could reach him.

Scud could take it all. But what he can't take is this. The constant zigzag between gentle and rough Deacon follows like it's the most natural thing to him. The man changes between empathy and animosity on a daily basis, stripping Scud of another protective layer before burning the newly discovered skin.

The fact that Scud waits for another gentle wave more eager each time just makes it all so much worse.

He is a pet, his master shouldn't treat him like an actual person. This is not how it's supposed to be! And it makes him angry. Scud mustn't feel angry, especially not at his master. What master says and does is right and the pet will accept it. It couldn't be more easy.

Suddenly his lungs refuse to take in the air. He bends a little forward, gasping and fighting the urge to whimper. His feet move on their own accord, carrying him over to the balcony's entrance. He needs to breath. It's not like it would matter that Deacon doesn't want him to step outside, nothing really matters anymore.

The glass door swings open and he stumbles out into the chilled night air. It's such a difference between inside his master's apartment and outside under the star sky. No sound reaches the rooms, but now Scud's ears are filled with the noises of big cities. It sounds so unfamiliar to him, and he doesn't get very far. In front of the small pool he sinks to his knees, his whole form loosening until he has to brace himself with one arm on the edge.

Everything is even more messed up than it has ever been, he can't follow the trails anymore. Not that there have been many of them ever.

One of the rubber ducks floats close to him. Scud stares at it and notices how it's beak curls into a small smile. It seems to be completely happy with it's existence. Of course it can be happy with it, there are no occasions to confuse what it's meaning in life is and what it has to do. He reaches out to gently push the duck away again. Maybe it's the first sure sign that he's starting to go crazy, the day he's envy of a rubber duck.

 

**xXxXx**

 

_He is in complete darkness. It's not only the all consuming black of the night. When the moon stands high Scud only manages to catch a glimpse of it as he's being led from one room to another. This is the only prove that the world outside still exists._

_The nights go by in a blur, weirdly distorted pictures of faces and the distant feeling of another body's presence. Nothing really reaches him, but it gets deep enough to send violent shivers down his spine every now and then when his mind fights it's way back to the surface, before quickly being drowned again. Scud doesn't know what drowning feels like, but it must be similar to this, the slow pressure building up inside of the lungs, the panic which struggles to overtake any clear thought and the missing of air to breath, so everything starts to feel numb until any sound, any sensation, is covered by the cold water surrounding him in a silent embrace._

_And then there's the fire, hot pain burning his insides and clutching at his back and bones. Scud knows it's not permanent, but when he brushes with numb fingertips over the burned places the fire starts to lick at the skin once again. He starts to look forward to his cell because then neither water nor fire can reach him. He's alone with himself in his head and then he remembers. The face of his mother with the faint hint of freckles decorating her shoulders, the aseptic smell of the orphanage which used to make him cringe his nose but seems clean and pleasant compared to that of his cell, the first time he kissed a boy, the first time he touched a girl's soft curves. Any part of his life, the good and the bad. It's all that keeps him sane, bound to reality._

_But terror's roots grow deep and with each passing night Scud can feel it's poisonous tips infest his mind with new memories and the old fade like a soft fog over the water, blown away by a cold breeze._

_Sometimes even Sharon can't reach him. No one of them cries anymore, they've shed their tears and now their bodies are too tired, so they often sit in silence, reaching for the other one's hand by the slightest sound._

“ _Promise me something”, she says one night, dry lips slurring the words. “You will make it, you won't give up. Promise me.”_

_He doesn't promise anything to her, neither does he tell her none of them will make it. She is too far gone anyway._

_And then they take her away._

_The next time he sees her is on his way to one of Anton's customers. The man always requires the same room. He has almost reached the door, then loud voices catch his attention. As he looks up, Sharon stands at the other end of the corridor. One of the guards is bending her arms behind her back, but Sharon doesn't scream in pain. She fights, kicking with her legs and yelling so loudly it actually gets through the fog inside of Scud's head. There's another man, no, a vampire and he just watches the scene. Suddenly Sharon lunges forward and spits into his face, her legs still trying to kick any part of him._

_A strong hand grabs Scud by the upper arm and then he is dragged inside the room._

_Scud waits the whole night for Sharon in their cell, but she never comes back. As he stares onto the spot where they spent most time clinging onto each other Scud remembers her last words to him._

_This time, he makes that promise._

 

**xXxXx**

 

He never asked for this, for this _gift_. You don't need eternal life when you're happy with the one you have. Or had. Deacon had been happy. All this time since that faithful night back then Deacon stopped to waste any more thought on what could have been but was never meant to be. Decade after decade he successfully convinced himself that he misses nothing of his human existence. Not the clearance of the air in the morning, or the warmth of sun on his arms in summer, or how his heart beat inside of his chest, always a little faster when he got to hold his younger sister when she was just a newborn.

Deacon had started to believe himself and trusted in the superiority of his race. But this faith has always been shaky and there have been a few times when questions, doubts were forming in the back of his mind.

Now they are replaced by confusing thoughts. No, not even thoughts, more like a light idea, always slipping out of his grip when he just closed his fingers around it. Such a fragile thing.

But he won't blame Scud for it. If he did it would all just become more real. Deacon is aware of this conclusion, but he lives for too long now to let one simple thing like this throw his mind into chaos. He's not a human anymore. And he's most definitely not like Scud.

Still he feels bad for what he's done. Ridiculous, he doesn't feel bad. You feel bad when you pulled an inappropriate joke on someone and see how you saddened that person. Deacon feels _guilty_ , because he has done a lot worse than just pulling some mean tricks on the boy.

Chances are that he's just as cruel of a master as Anton was, and this idea alone sickens him deeply.

He wanted to use Scud to his advantage. But the joke's on him, it seems more like Scud's the one in control. The thought doesn't exactly anger him, but it scares him. Things are getting more complicated with each passing night, every time he takes sight of that damaged creature in his apartment. Deacon can lie as much as he wants to himself, but the truth is that he's been in the same place as the pet. A time when he was confused and scared, and then, one day, all by himself.

A helping hand, that's what he had prayed for back then, someone who would take on of his pity existence.

Maybe it's not just about his own advantage anymore, maybe he really has something like sympathy left for the human. Even though he is... but what does it matter by now? He can't blame him for Dragonetti's narrow-minded thinking, that would be too easy. And he won't give Anton the satisfaction of a madcap step even if that's what he would have done any other time. A lot is different with this pet.

Blankly he stares at the sheets next to his laptop. Nothing of it makes sense and the black ink blurs as he scratches tiny cuts into the white paper. It leaves a faint dirty path with the dried blood under his nails. He frowns as he investigates the small ring under the usually clear white. If Scud hadn't saved him he wouldn't be here anymore, wondering about all those things.

With a faint idea leading him he stands up from his chair and wanders through the apartment, looking for the familiar silent form of the pet. But the living room, where he usually expects him to sit on the couch and investigate the walls like they are some kind of art piece, is empty. Therefore the door to the balcony stands a little open, a cool draft dancing over his skin. For a split second his throat tightens with a sudden jump of panic. Balcony, incredible heights and an instant death is what crosses his mind in that short moment. Then he hurries over to the entrance.

It started to rain, the gray floor is already wet and slippery. Dark clouds cover any star and only now and then the moon manages to fight through the thick black and sends pale dots prance over the buildings' surfaces. Deacon likes the rain, likes the smell of it when it cools the heated concrete in summer or drowns out disturbing thoughts with it's rhythmic drumming against the windows, like a thousand tiny fists asking for an invitation.

When the moon sends another silver line over the balcony he sees him, crouched down on the edge to the pool. Rain drops fall down on him, soaking his shirt and running over his bare arms. But he doesn't even seem to notice, doesn't even bother to move.

The next wave of panic takes hold of his chest and Deacon hurries over, watching not to slip on the wet ground.

“Scud”, he calls. No response. “Scud!”

When his hand touches one shaking shoulder, feeling cold and bony against his own skin, that's when Scud notices him. He whirls around, as if ripped out of a state of trance – and yelps. With a sudden move he backs away, the hand he had braced himself on slips over the edge and then he's gone and Deacon hears a loud splash.

With a curse he jumps after him, landing feet first in the icy cold water. It's not exactly deep, only reaching to his waist, but Scud fell head first. When a wildly reeling arm breaks the surface, Deacon grabs it and pulls the rest of the pet from under the water. Scud gasps for air, dark hair clinging to his forehead but not enough to cover the panic in his eyes.

“It's okay, I got you”, Deacon tries to calm the fighting boy down. “Scud, stop, I got you!”

He presses the quivering body to his own until the fighting lessens and finally dies out. Scud's breath comes in violent rattles, hot against his ear and then there are hands, nails burying themselves into the fabric of his shirt and part of his flesh. Deacon doesn't complain, just holds the pet in a firm embrace.

“I-I'm s-sorry.”

He would have never thought to be so relieved to hear that small, raspy voice again.

“Let's get you out of the water”, he mumbles. With a fluid movement he lifts himself out of the pool and over the edge, reaching out for Scud with one hand. The human's skin feels dead cold as Deacon pulls him out. Just like his own.

Together they lumber back into the apartment, leaving dark spots on floor and carpet on their way to the bathroom.

“What were you thinking?” Deacon asks, voice sharper than intended as he kneels in front of Scud who he has sat down on the tube's edge and starts to rather roughly dry his hair with a towel.

“I'm sorry.”

“I told you not to go out on the balcony. You disobeyed me, pet.”

“...'m sorry.”

Deacon sighs. He stops to rub the human's hair only to throw him an unconvinced look.

“How about not doing it in the first place, hm?”

Scud doesn't dare to look him in the eyes, instead stares at the tightly curled fists in his lap. Deacon can see that he's fighting the urge to gnaw on his lips, something Scud always does when he's nervous. Sometimes he downright chews on it and leaves an almost torn layer of skin behind, with the blood pulsing under the damaged area. Deacon never told him not to do it because he liked the look of concentration on Scud's face, like he's fully into the act.

“What am I supposed to do with you?”, he mumbles. Carefully he brushes a wet strand out of Scud's eyes. They are slightly reddened, he probably cried. Deacon doesn't have to think of a reason. It's his fault, he hurt Scud, once again. “You're not making it easy for me.”

When he catches an escaping rain drop with his thumb, gently smearing it into the pale skin of his cheek, he feels Scud tensing under the touch.

His expression hardens.

“You can do the rest yourself, right?” Deacon babbles as he quickly stands up, letting the towel drop into Scud's lap and grabbing another one for himself. Without a last look he leaves the room, not bothering to close the door behind him.

 

**xXxXx**

 

After drying himself up, for which he takes his time because Scud has the feeling Deacon won't let him go with a simple rub over his cheek, he tiptoes from the bathroom over to the only empty room in his master's apartment. There he stores his clothes. It's not that much, only an accurately folded bundle of some shirts and a pair of jeans, but it's his and has of course nothing to do in his master's drawer.

He grabs a dark blue shirt which feels wonderfully soft between his tips and shrugs it over his head. Even in dry state his hair is messy, but now the tips of the shorter strands curl up and fall into his sight when he bends down. With an annoyed huff Scud tries to clam them behind his ear, but they're still too short for that. Anton demanded to let his hair get cut every two months so it reached just over his eyes and never fell on his shoulders. He said he liked the way it _swung_ when he fucked him from behind.

Scud ignores the knot in his stomach and quickly changes into some dry jeans. On some days it's especially hard to hold off those thoughts and on some days he can't do it at all.

Deacon isn't in his room, how Scud had hoped, or at least how he thinks he had hoped. His master stands in the kitchen, a cup in one hand and with the other searching through the drawers. When he notices Scud who stopped a few feet away, he puts the cup aside and tilts his head a little.

“I wanted to make you a tea”, he begins, “but then I noticed that I have neither tea bags nor a water boiler.”

Scud doesn't laugh about this, he's a little too baffled by the sight of his master. Deacon looks gravely disappointed, but quickly hides it with a stern frown.

“Humans get sick when they're undercooled.”

“I know”, Scud mumbles as he sees the slightly helpless look in Deacon's eyes. “I fixed the microwave.”

“What?”

“I... uhm, fixed the microwave. You could, or I could, make hot water, maybe. That's close to tea, right?”

Deacon watches him for a moment, then he takes the empty cup and fills it with water. “It's at least something. I don't like the thought of you spreading your germs around here.”

“Of course not”, Scud says slowly.

He stays frozen on his spot while Deacon puts the cup into the microwave and pushes some buttons, all the while having a suspicious frown on. It's such a ridiculous situation that the happy beep startles him.

“Sit down.”

His legs begin to move when Deacon points to the wooden table nearby. Carefully he pulls one chair back and glides down on it, hooking a feet around one of the legs. The edges are round and feel smooth like silk against his still slightly cool skin.

“Shouldn't you put on socks, or something?” Deacon asks darkly as he puts the cup with hot water in front of Scud.

“I prefer it like this”, he says, just realizing when the words are already out that Deacon probably didn't ask for his opinion. The hot shiver flowing down his spine is almost enough to warm his whole body. But he doesn't dare to say any more and just lets it hang in the air, leaving it to Deacon to understand it as an effrontery or not.

“Just don't get sick.”

Scud silently sighs in relief and reaches for the cup. Not only the water is hot, but the whole ceramic and he carefully pulls it near with two fingers around the handle. Out of the corner of his eyes he sees that Deacon is watching him. He takes a sip, burning his tongue and glances up to the other man.

“It's good”, he says almost inaudibly.

Deacon nods, and sits down on the chair opposite of Scud's. His heart sinks at the sight, but he doesn't let it show, instead keeps himself occupied by taking tiny sips from his cup. The sudden wish of his master to be around him makes him nervous, incredibly downright nerve-wrecking nervous. The fact that Deacon stays silent and stares at a spot on the table is not exactly calming.

His hair is almost dry again, Scud notices. And he doesn't wear one of his finer shirts. It's a simple T-shirt, almost looking a little worn with a small tear right under the collar. It horrifies Scud in a way he can't describe.

“Thank you”, he mumbles.

“What were you thinking?”

The question comes so sudden, the fingers holding the cup loosen a little and some droplets of water fall to the table's surface.

“I-I'm sorry, master?”

“When you went out there, you purposely disobeyed me. Why? Aren't you scared of me? Did you want to prove anything?” Deacon still doesn't look at him, but his words are harsh and cold. Scud unconsciously leans a little back on his chair.

He doesn't know what to answer, his mind is completely blank. He just stares at the man in front of him, holding the still hot cup and ignores the increasing burn on his skin.

“Answer me”, Deacon growls and now he looks up, directly into Scud's eyes.

“I don't know”, Scud manages to whisper. He is scared of Deacon, that's out of question, because his voice still shakes a little when he looks into those cold light eyes. “I don't know, I just -”

His gaze glides down before he can think further of words to explain his miserable situation. It doesn't matter anyway, if Deacon feels the need to punish him for what he did then he will. No stammered sentence could change that. The more he is surprised to hear him speak, a sudden softness in the voice.

“Maybe I don't want you to be scared of me. And maybe I was... imagining you in a position which would not please me that much.”

“Oh. Uhm, thank you?”

Deacon snorts and turns a little on his chair, scraping at an invisible spot on the table.

“It's nothing to thank me for. It shouldn't have come to that in the first place. Well, shit, but it's not like this wouldn't be a fucked up situation anyway.”

“I'm not-”, he starts, gripping the cup a little tighter despite his already burned skin, holding on to it like some kind of anchor, “I'm not doing this on purpose. You asked, what you should do with me. I don't know, never had to think about that, people always found some kind of use for me. But... I'm sorry, and I don't mean to be a burden. That's just what happens, always.”

“And how much do you think does your apologize mean to me?” Deacon asks, speaking slowly and perfectly calm. He doesn't even look angry, just really tired.

Sighing, he rubs over his face, palming his eyes for a moment. As his shirt slips a little Scud sheepishly takes a closer look for the first time. Deacon is pale, just like all other vampires, only that his skin looks cleaner, finer. He's not exactly built like a brick shit house, his figure's similar to that of a swimmer, lean muscles that keep close to the bone, defining under a cold layer of skin with every move. No matter what he does, whether he walks through the apartment or tosses his belongings around in a fit, every single movement looks fluid, controlled – although Scud knows that Deacon is not really in control of himself, not always at least.

If he was a human, Scud would describe him as attractive, someone who would pull a lot of gazes after him when walking down the street. But he's not human, there isn't a steady heart beat sending warm blood running through veins and heating up the body, making it alive and waking in Scud the urge to touch. He would feel just like all those other suckheads, cold and dead under his fingertips.

Suddenly the temperature in the room drops and with a shiver Scud takes another sip of the still warm water. Quivering, he feels it hotly run down his gullet. Despite the rather tensed atmosphere between them, he tries to enjoy the gesture.

“This turned out very different from what I imagined.”

Deacon sounds tired, the usual annoyance replaced by honest frustration. Scud feels bad for him.

“What did you imagine, master?”

“Not this”, Deacon mumbles and glances at Scud through his spread fingers. Without any gel his hair looks really soft, the longer strands falling over his eyes before they gently swing and lay on his cheek as soon as he moves. Since some time Scud tries to figure out what color it has, but it changes between a light hazel and a deep brown, almost like his, in the shorter parts. And on some days it has a blonde shimmer, which Scud likes most because it softens the man's often worn hard expression.

“I thought a pet is supposed to make his master feel better, not worse. What do you think, hm?”

The cup is of a deep blue. Scud rubs with a thumb over the shimmering surface. He chooses the next words very carefully.

“I think... I _could_ make you feel very good, if you let me.”

When he glances up, bottom lip gently caught between his teeth, Deacon watches him. For a second his gaze is empty, hanging on Scud's lips. Then he snaps back. He sighs, again, something he's doing a lot lately, as Scud noticed.

“That again? I thought I made it clear, I have no interest in you.”

Scud huffs, a joyless smile crooking his lips a little. “That didn't keep anyone off so far. It wasn't always me people imagined, you know. I've been called a lot of names, but never my own. Just tell me, I can be very quiet.”

If his words moved anything in Deacon, then he doesn't let it show. They just stare at each other from their sides of the table, only the steam of the water interrupting the sight. Scud holds in his breath, doesn't dare to move because it could show how scared he really is. His fingers clutch the cup and his grip is to tight that his knuckles turn white. Still he doesn't look away, this time he will stand the cold look of his master.

“You're so fucked up”, Deacon growls.

The breath he had held comes out sharper than intended, and the sudden wave of anger flooding his chest surprises himself, but his mouth is already moving.

“Well, _master_ , that's brand new information. But, and I'm just wondering, why would you get yourself a pet in the first place? Only to complain about how it destroys your life or tell it what a mess it is? I'm not that far gone, I know exactly just how _fucked up_ I am.”

As soon as the words are out the anger washes away as quickly as it came and Scud is left with a vast panic cutting off any air, his heart thundering inside of his chest. Deacon can hear it, he knows he can, because the look on his face, which turned from surprise to a dark shadow bringing an alarming glister to the eyes, speaks barely suppressed fury.

Without having to see it, Scud knows that a pair of fangs is gliding out of cold flesh, only to be rammed through his warm, living own.

He feels an apologize tug at his tongue, but he swallows it down and ignores his fear.

“That's just how it is”, he croaks courageously.

 

**xXxXx**

 

For a moment Deacon forgets his previous plan of not hurting Scud again. His fingers twitch with the urge to lunge forward and remind the human of his place. But with each passing second the anger fades and instead he feels curiosity. This has never happened before, an open condemnation coming from the pet, showing what really lies underneath the facile submissive behavior. Hate and frustration. A burnt child waiting for his chance to strike back.

And Deacon thought he had a lot of self-control.

The little outrage shows more than Scud probably intended. Deacon can see how the human must have been before he was forced to bow against his will. It makes a part of him cautious, but at the same time weirdly excited.

He needs to see that side again.

“You wonder why you're here?” he begins. “You're the very bottom of the food chain, worthless trash that's whole purpose is to serve a superior race. You're less than nothing, scraping through the dirt and secretly craving the feeling of being fucked over, again and again. Quite literally, as it seems. Anton must have seen something in you, pet, a little slut just waiting to be ridden. Tell me, how much did it really turn you on when he marked you and let you do all those dirty things, letting him degrade you and begrime every part of your body and mind, until you smelled just like that filthy vampire.”

To Scud's credit, he never broke eye contact while Deacon spoke. But humans are easy to confuse and with every word the invisible wall around him breaks more. Just a little, but that's okay, Deacon hates when things are rushed.

“When I found you, down in that dark, stinking hole your master called a basement, you looked perfect. The very picture of a pet's final ride. Was it fun? Did you urge him on when he fucked you and took that last tiny bit of dignity you possessed? Did he screw you so well you came all over that broken little body of yours?”

“Shut up”, Scud whispers. His throat contracts, swallowing down the tears which threaten to be shed.

“No”, Deacon smiles and lightly shakes his head. “First you must tell me how good it felt, how much you enjoyed being torn apart and claimed until you could forget every dark moment in your pitiful life. Until it seemed like you paid your debts and some God would forgive you for what you've done. Wasn't it like that? First the fun and then the redemption? Wasn't it? Tell me!”

“Shut up!”

When Scud jumps up, he reacts immediately, rounding the table within the blink of an eye and building himself up in front of the hysterical human.

“Sit down”, he growls, ignoring the violent shaking which took hold of the boy's form. “I said: _sit, pet_.”

Deacon watches as Scud's knees give in and he drops back onto the chair.

“That's a good boy”, he mumbles in a mockingly tender voice, slowly stepping back and taking in the sight of his work.

No sound comes from the human, but his fingers clutch at the denim covering his legs, shoulders rising and falling in a constant stutter and the dark spots deepening the blue of his cotton shirt, created by silent tears.

Deacon sighs and leans against the counter. “Breath, Scud.”

As if waiting for the command he snaps for air, before hunching down even more with a hollow whimper in the back of his throat. It's not exactly what Deacon wanted, but they're not done yet.

“Well, then. If all my assumptions are wrong, why don't you tell me how it really went? Providing there's a part of you left who actually knows what the truth is. Is anything of that really you? Or is it all just acting? Tell me what you want, pet.”

He waits, gives Scud time to collect himself and doesn't make a face when he snuffles wholeheartedly, wiping his eyes with one sleeve. For a moment he stares at a spot next to Deacon.

“I want to survive”, he croaks. “That's all I know.”

“Now, isn't that something?” Deacon asks. He keeps his voice low and comforting, like he does when seducing a prey.

Scud glances up at him. His lashes cling together and the tip of his nose is already reddened. It makes him look so much more fragile.

“And what do you live for? Do you think you can go on like this?”

“I don't think about whether I can go on or not. Because if I knew the answer, I wouldn't be here anymore.”

The next breath he takes comes in a rattle.

“And I live for a promise.”

Deacon tries to hide it, but the corners of his lips still pull a little downward. “You live for someone else. Oh, that's always good”, he says, not able to hide the sarcasm dripping off his voice.

Scud throws him a dark glare. “What do you care about it? I thought I was just... the bottom of the food chain.”

“That's the thing, I shouldn't care. The way you shouldn't care about me taking advantage of you. Why do you do that? Am I that fucking irresistible or do you just don't know what to do with yourself?”

“...guess I don't know.”

Somehow he expected that answer, but that doesn't sooth the sudden hate for the pet swimming thickly through his veins.

“You don't know a lot of things”, he snaps.

“And you do?”

There it is again, just what Deacon had hoped for.

“What exactly is going through your head?”

He can hear his heart beat, a little fastened and jumping at the last question. The faint smell of adrenaline hangs in the air and it takes all of Deacon's composure not to let it flood his mind too strongly. With his arms crossed over the chest he can at least hide the slight excited tremble of his muscles.

“What would you like to hear?”

“I prefer the truth.”

“Then”, Scud mumbles, “The past months have been... rough, and I will never be able to have a dream not ending with me being chained up in some dark chamber or feel like giving up because, really, what is this all for? And I will always remember every single time someone took advantage of me. But I will not let it define me. I will be more than just the result of what people did to me. That's what they can't take away, that's what they will never have.”

 

**xXxXx**

 

There is no reaction in his face, but Scud didn't expect it anyway. Instead he tries to ignore the clench of his stomach as he reveals more and more to Deacon, tells him about his thoughts which have been kept quiet until now, like they're old friends. It feels wrong, but there's not much he could do about it.

“Why don't you want me to be scared of you? Isn't that a part of your superior race?”

“Usually, maybe.”

With a finger he draws little circles onto the wooden table, leaving rings of waters as he drives through what slopped out of the cup when he jumped up. They quickly form to drops, the circles breaking and reforming on their own.

“Why do you hate humans?”

Scud didn't know what he waited for, but when Deacon huffs, frustratedly, he lifts his head. There's this look of being lost in his master's eyes again.

“Humans are...”, Deacon starts, slightly rocking back and forth, elbows leaning on the counter behind him, “they are weak. They are terribly pitiful creatures, so unsure of their existence. They don't appreciate life and instead like to throw it away, just ignore all those chances that are given to them. Fucking ungrateful little pricks. I can't stand looking at them and know, one day they'll blow their head off, take an overdose heroin or jump off a building because they think they can't deal with it. You give up so easily, it's sickening me.”

“But you were a humans once too”, Scud says. “Doesn't that mean you gave up on life when you let yourself get turned? Doesn't that make you just as wea-”

The rest of the sentence gets cut off when his head hits the table's surface. Stars explode in front of his eyes and he feels the force of the impact ring through his skull. For a moment he blinks through the blur in his eyes, fingers helplessly scraping at the smooth surface.

“Don't you fucking say that again!”

Deacon's voice is so close to his ear that his heart skips a beat in surprise. It's just when the pain in his skull dampens that he feels the hand shoving through his hair, grabbing a fistful and pressing his face harder against the cool wood.

He immediately stops moving and tries to focus on a steady breathing, but the constant press against his skull lets images flash before his eyes. Images of his head cracked open, lying in a pool of his own blood.

“I'm sorry”, he whimpers, as loud as he can with half of his face muffled by the table. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Please, master, let me go.”

But Deacon doesn't let go. Scud feels a cold shiver run down his spine when the soft tip of a nose nuzzles the hair in his neck, alarmingly close to his carotid. He hears him growl, only faintly but loud enough to make his whole body tense. Scud doesn't dare to close his eyes. He stares at the water droplets forming weird bodies, seemingly untouched by the scene displaying in front of them.

“Please”, he whispers hoarsely, fear holding his throat in a grip. “Deacon...”

The hand on his head disappears, but he doesn't try to move yet. Too great the fear of being punished again.

“I'm sorry, that-”, Scud hears him babble. His stomach does a little flip flop at the insecurity in his master's voice. Slowly, Scud lifts his head, wincing at the feeling of a forming bump right over his temple.

Deacon leans against the counter again, just not looking as relaxed as before. His hands clutch at the edges like his life depends on it, or his sanity, which is more likely regarding the look of utter confusion in his eyes.

“It's okay”, Scud hurries to reassure him. “Didn't even hurt.”

He knows that look, sometimes it meant things were just about to get worse. But Deacon doesn't assault him again, he just stands there, shaking his head a little as in disbelief.

With a groan he reaches up, drawing a hand through his hair so the shorter part is now standing off in all directions. It makes him look weirdly unstable, adding just that certain touch of craziness Scud never wanted to encounter.

“No, no, that shouldn't have happened”, Deacon babbles, words muttered by the hands covering his face. “It's just that... oh fuck, you're a human and you smell... you smell, and warm...”

Now Scud is sure he's about to lose it. He looks him over, noticing the slight tremble in the other man's limbs, takes in the sight of insecurity forming in every little move, and then his gaze hangs on a denim covered crotch.

“Oh”, he mumbles.

Deacon doesn't respond and just keeps on barely rocking back and forth like a traumatized child, his hands still muffling the small incoherent babble.

Scud almost pities him. He should have known that his presence wouldn't leave his new master unaffected, especially since Deacon isn't used to have a human around permanently. Suddenly the fierce vampire looses all of his violent charisma, leaving only the image of an inexperienced teen scared and somewhat ashamed of his first boner. Though the image is all but new to Scud. He had seen all kind of lengths and forms, sooner or later it's normal to numb to the sight. Shame has been something dangerous back then, because an inhibited pet is of no use.

Scud has been of a very good use.

 

**xXxXx**

 

This can't be real, it must be some kind of bad joke someone decided to pull on him. There he stands, known for his unforgiving hatred towards human, while having a growing erection at the same time. Deacon knows it's impossible to control a body's certain reactions... but this is degrading.

Just a moment ago he refused to take any offer Scud would give him, and now the idea gets drowned out by the overwhelming sensation of a warm body close by, hot blood rushing through fragile veins and tearing at his instincts to lunge and bite and take.

Deacon jumps when he feels something crawl over his thigh. The pet, kneeling in front of him while a hand rubs up and down the front of his leg in an almost soothing gesture. He doesn't say a word, just smiles up at him with the most undisturbed expression Deacon has ever seen on him.

They stare at each other for a moment, completely silent. The drag of denim over his skin makes an obscenely loud noise in the silent apartment.

Deacon feels, knows, he should say something now. But his tongue is only a lazy piece of meat, refusing to form the little intelligent thoughts that cross his mind before fading off into nothingness again.

Before he can decide on how long to keep this uncomfortable silence up, Scud leans forward, nuzzling the spot where his stomach meets the waistband. Then he dips his head to mouth Deacon's hardening cock through the rough fabric.

Rather reflexively, one hand shoots down to grab the pet's hair and yank his head back. Scud whines, but doesn't lose the relaxed expression.

“What are you doing?” Deacon asks stupidly.

Scud looks up at him and the dullness in his eyes is gone, replaced by an approaching storm lighting the blue.

“About to give you the best fucking blowjob you ever had”, he says, his voice suddenly smooth. It sends an involuntary shiver run down Deacon's spine like fire.

He doesn't answer, head starting to spin with the lunacy of the situation. Something inside of him yells to bloody do something, say no, tell Scud that he doesn't have to do this because it's fucking _wrong_.

His mouth opens, lips barely forming silent words.

“I'm...”, he stutters. His grip in Scud's hair tightens. “I'm not like that.”

“Yeah, you're definitely not”, Scud says, his tone taking a soothing note. “But... I don't want to be a burden and it's not fair, not when you care for me. I could give you so much. Please, let me.”

Gently, Scud releases Deacon's hand from his hair, massaging the wrist before placing a light kiss right onto the palm. His lips feel surprisingly soft, Deacon had always imagined them to be rougher.

“Please”, Scud whispers and it's barely more than a warm exhale against his skin.

The voice inside of his head fell quiet. Everything is silent except the heart beat violently thundering in his ears. It's not faster than usual, but to Deacon it seems as alive as it always should have been.

He feels himself nod and Scud's eyes light up for a second. A last smile against his palm, then he lets go of his hand and it drops uselessly to the side. Deacon never loses sight of those eyes, not even when shy hands leave a warm path on his thighs, or when Scud opens his jeans with experienced fingers, slowly dragging the zipper down and heart fastening at the familiar sound.

He almost flinches, barely suppressing his instinct to run, when he's embraced by warmth.

Scud licks his lips, the wet trail shimmering on the surface and then he leans forward, taking in half of the length at once. Deacon bites his tongue to keep the words from breaking free. He readjusts his stance, one hand bracing himself against the counter's edge. The other hand reached forward to lightly grasp the strands in the pet's neck. They curl against his fingers, slipping through his grip as Scud moves.

He's not playing with Deacon, not trying to tease him. His movements are studied, and with the next he watches his cock disappear to the base in Scud's hot mouth.

His hips begin to move, a constant stutter meeting the welcoming warmth. When a wet tongue curls around the hard flesh, Deacon takes a sharp inhale and the fingers entangled in the pet's hair tighten the grip on their own. Scud moans at the harsh pull. He straightens his position to take him all the way in and with a last violent quiver Deacon comes down his throat.

Scud swallows to the last drop. He carefully pulls back to release Deacon when he becomes too sensitive for the touch.

 

**xXxXx**

 

Every now and then he had glanced up, taken in the face of his master as he worked him the way he had learned. He had listened to all the small noises coming from Deacon, and when he came Scud had felt joy spread in his chest. Not because he's happy to have blown him or given him one hell of an orgasm, but because, this time, it had been Scud's will.

He looks at the curled fists in his lap when Deacon fixes himself up. His lips feel a little swollen, hot blood rushing under the thin skin. The mouth stays shut, more out of habit than anything else and he only lifts his head when the hand in his hair is back.

Deacon's expression is unreadable. Only the glister in his eyes an indicator for his previous state. Scud leans into the touch. It feels nice, but he would never tell.

“Did your other master let you come?” Deacon asks, voice roughened. The question comes sudden, but Scud had heard weirder things post-orgasm. He shakes his head, adding a small “Only if he wanted to”.

Deacon nods, seemingly lost in thoughts. “You shouldn't sleep on the couch, you're too much of an easy target if someone breaks in. I will call Petty, she will find a sleeping accommodation for your room.”

“My room?” Scud asks, honestly surprised.

“Where you store your clothes”, Deacon explains. His fingers are still playing with the strands in his neck, and Scud almost sighs when he rubs over a tense spot. “It's better than sleeping on the couch.”

“Thank you”, Scud mumbles and he means it.


	6. Chapter 6

„How did that happen?“

Petty eyes the bump suspiciously. It's not that bad, Scud already forgot about it, but bad enough to light up the familiar's eyes in caution.

“Tripped”, he says, adding a weak smile.

She nods, but Scud knows she doesn't believe him. Petty's been Deacon's assistant for almost two years now and she has seen some of his darker sides during that time, darker than Scud wants to imagine.

“How's your brother doing?” he asks between the bites. Today Petty brought him a pizza, together with a compassionate look when Scud realized it's vegetarian.

“Better”, she says. The table is clean, no sheets sprawled out in front of her. Deacon must have noticed and told her not to work on business anymore because the young woman looks a little strained as she cracks her knuckles. A nervous habit, like Scud's lip chewing. “The doctors say it was probably just a food poisoning. I will never again tell someone to buy cheap sushi.”

Petty's family comes from Alaska and it was only due to long pleadings and an almost-break-down from her side that Deacon agreed to leave that contact untouched.

“If they get killed, it's your fucking fault, Miss Bloom”, he had growled.

Speaking of the devil, the door falls shut, startling them both.

“Good evening, Mr Frost”, Petty says politely and stands up as Deacon approaches them. Scud doesn't turn around. He takes another bite of his pizza and makes a face when he tastes white mushroom.

“The phone in the hall is ringing repeatingly”, Deacon says. “You're done here, Miss Bloom.”

“Of course, sir.”

Scud catches her look and nods as a goodbye. When Deacon is around she turns into the perfect secretary that she's supposed to be. It's nothing personal when Scud becomes thin air to her then, she's just doing her job.

He feels a finger brush over his temple.

“Did you put ice on it like I told you?”

Scud swallows half of the bite, words muffled by the rest. “..'s not tha' bad.”

“Doesn't matter. I told you to do it.”

'To calm your guilty conscience', Scud ads silently. He watches as Deacon takes off his coat and wanders through the darkened hall to his bedroom. It seems as if everything is back to normal again, like nothing happened the previous night. No long conversation, no spilled secrets and emotional outbursts, crowned with perfect fellatio and a weird moment of understanding between them.

It's not exactly awkward, Scud had expected it to be like this or even worse. But he had _hoped_ it to be different this time.

When he finished his pizza, deliberately leaving parts of the rim because he knows how Deacon hates when things are wasted, the box gets carelessly trashed into the bin. It doesn't fit, more than the half is reaching out of it, but it wasn't Scud's idea to get pizza, so there's no reason to care. Which he does rarely as soon as he noticed his master's weird behavior. Like nothing happened.

Fucking coward.

When he bends down to give the box a last halfhearted push the shirt slips over his back.

“You've worn out your shirt again”, Deacon says. Leaning against the counter he watches Scud through sharp eyes.

“I don't like them tight”, he says, pushing the thin fabric back. He visibly pulls at the hem and Deacon's eyes darken.

It's not like he's not afraid of being screwed over again, the bump is a silent reminder of his subdued position, it's just that he doesn't care anymore. While a side of him still pleads to be careful because the fact doesn't change he's dealing with a short-tolerance vampire here, the other is weirdly joyful about the idea of pestering his master, and see what comes out of it.

They stare at each other for a moment, both unblinking and waiting for the other one to slip. Deacon is the first one to break the contest and turn around with a frustrated huff.

“Whatever”, he mumbles, strutting away with visibly taut shoulders. Scud almost sighs in relief, but swallows the sound down just in time. _Whatever_ , that's at least something.

He doesn't care that Deacon hates him or scorns his humanity with the passion of a thousand burning hells. There's nothing else to expect of a vampire, they're all the same.

 

**xXxXx**

 

Everything went differently from what he planned it to. Everything that could go wrong did go wrong and now they've reached a point where Deacon just doesn't know what to do. Nothing of what he encountered the past decades had prepared him for something like _this_. His nature would be to repel Scud, to negate everything that happened. Which he does, just that it doesn't work as smoothly as hoped. The pet isn't stupid, he knows perfectly well what Deacon is trying to achieve and answers with a sudden averseness to his master and environment.

As the elevator glides down the floors his thoughts get interrupted by the music wavering through the air. Whoever invented this should be set on fire.

“I'm going out, don't let anyone in”, he says as he walks past Petty. The young familiar nods and smiles while she takes the latest delivery from the mail man.

A thought crosses his mind that his pet and secretary found a quick bound to each other, and that he maybe should eliminate this. No information about Scud must slip through to the outside world, especially now since the rumors about him having a pet are making their round.

The night is slightly chilled. Autumn is approaching. It doesn't change a thing, for Deacon every season's the same. It's only that he has less time to be annoyed by the world in summer.

The way from his apartment to Missouri's tentative underground hospital gives him enough time to think his plan through. But he is settled, after everything that happened he has to sort out his thoughts, with someone, preferably someone who has the balls to actually talk to him. And Missouri is everything but a fine lady, so it comes close.

The hospital is indeed a hospital, consisting of a handful of rooms for patients, all familiars of his, small halls illuminated by sickly green light. He cringes his nose at the antiseptic smell.

“I'm busy, get out.”

The usual snarling tone lessens the strain for a moment.

“Thought you might have time for your favorite employer”, he purrs, unceremoniously pushing the thin curtain aside. Missouri looks up from her work, her eyes three times their size through the magnifier goggles crowning her nose.

She snorts and turns back to draw a bloody needle through the flesh of a bulky man sitting next to her on an operating table. Deacon tilts his head at the large cut through the man's shoulder.

“Looks nasty”, he comments.

“Smells even worse”, Missouri mumbles, ignoring the scowl from the familiar. It's one of Deacon's, every human down in this parody of a clinic is his. He doesn't know them by name, the way a farmer doesn't name his cattle. They're all same smelling and acting like dumb gorillas.

“I need help.” The words are out without a thought and now he gets Missouri's attention. The needle stops halfway through the bleeding flesh and she gives him an investigating glance over the frame of her goggles. “It's about the pet.”

“Color me surprised”, she mutters, although it sounds less honest than her eyes would let shine through. “Still I'm busy, so wait outside.”

Ignoring the last comment Deacon pulls a rusty looking chair near and sits down on it. The needle stops again, but she only sighs. It's not that easy to shake Deacon Frost off. Without looking he can feel the familiar turn his head a little.

“I thought it would be easier”, he starts, leaning forward with his elbows settling on the knees, hands massaging each other in turn. “But it's not. In fact, he drives me bloody crazy. You have no idea, it's just... it's a big fucking mess.”

“Big fucking mess”, Missouri repeats, leaning in closer to the flesh to push the needle through an especially thick part. Drops of blood fall to the ground, distracting Deacon for a second.

“The one moment he flinches from my touch like a cornered animal, the next he's almost begging me to ride his ass. And the way he looks at me, _the way he looks_. The worst of all is I don't even know why he has so much control over me. Yeah, control, like little strings on a puppet. He pulls and I react. I don't know if he does it on purpose or, maybe, if he's just completely off the beaten track.”

“You talk like he's an actual person to you. Is he?”

“No”, Deacon croaks and stares at her unflinching. “He's just... a human, he's a pet.”

With a sigh Missouri presses her fingers against a spot on the open wound and pushes something back in. Maybe a bone, or a vein.

“You know, Frost”, she ponders, “if that is your only explanation, then you really are the dumb brat everyone's calling you. Because he is a human? That is your explanation? You're like the skinhead of vampires.”

“That has nothing to do with individual opinion, it's just the way it is”, he growls darkly, shifting back on his chair when the iron smell fills his nostrils.

“Yeah, and that's the thing. Since I know you, you've been hating the humans for the mere reason of them being humans. The closest of an explanation you had was because they're weak. And now you listen to me or you can get right the fuck out, I tell you. Got better things to do than play headshrinker. Since when do you walk over this twisted, rotten earth, Frost? And since when did your poor little mind circle around this one truth, that your race is superior and everyone else sucks. Figuratively speaking, okay?”

She makes a pause to pick a piece of glass out of the wound.

“Look, Frost – have you ever thought about making a change of view in all those years? You're an adventurous guy. Why not try this one? Your prestige is already down the drain, so what could go wrong?”

Deacon catches her look, lightly compassionate and even more annoyed. “It's that easy”, she adds. “Most things are easy, you just keep yourself from seeing the solution.”

“But he's my pet, I'm not supposed to--”

With a wild whirl of her arm she cuts him off.

“Did I fucking stutter? No. What's your fucking problem, Frost? Did you at some point in your life make the promise to be an ignorant twat for the rest of your unholy existence?”

With a curse under her breath she makes the last stitches, Deacon watching her in silence.

“It's no one but you who has sure control over what you believe and what you want to believe. If anyone's making it hard for you, it's yourself. There”, she sighs and cuts off the surplus thread. “Try to beat up people with your other arm for the next weeks.”

Just when the familiar stands up to leave, Deacon holds up his hand.

“Wait a moment”, he says, rising from the chair. Curiously he investigates the stitches. “Good work, as always.”

Missouri shrugs. He smiles at her, then turns back – only to grab the familiar in the neck, slamming his head one, two, three times against the operating table's surface until a cracking sound echoes through the tiled room. Missouri yelps and stumbles a foot back as blood splatters over her cheetah printed overall. The now breathless body of the man sinks to the floor when Deacon releases his grip. He flicks disapprovingly with a look to the buckled table's edge.

“I'm going to pay for that”, he reassures.

With a slow controlled movement Missouri takes off her goggles.

“What was that for?” she asks, her voice slightly pitched.

“He heard me”, Deacon explains as if it's the most natural thing. “Do you know how many enemies I have? A conversation like that could cost us both our lives. I did you a favor.”

“Yeah, right, I'm so thankful I could vomit into your face. Next time tell me if you want to kill my patients before I waste good thread on them. Now, please get out, gotta clean up that mess you made.”

Deacon waves her good bye, adding a cheerful “Thanks for the help” and strides through the corridors with the sickly green light back to the exit.

 

**xXxXx**

 

The phone glides through his fingers, the surface so smooth it reflects his face. Tired, worn out. Not even the black of the cover able to hide the dark rings under his eyes. Scud hasn't slept more than three hours the last days and it's starting to affect his body. Sometimes he believes to see a shadow out of the corner of his eye or hear a distant whisper from somewhere in the apartment. When he has the courage to look for the source he finds nothing. One time he was sure to hear someone talk in the bathroom, only to discover it empty and silent. As he turned to leave, the mirror caught his eyes and Scud almost jumped at his own sight.

He doesn't look like himself anymore.

Nothing resembles himself anymore. What's left of the shadow that used to be him is skinny, scarred and afraid.

Even when Deacon isn't in the apartment, when Scud _knows_ he isn't there, he feels those sharp eyes on him, watching his every step, every movement, every breath. It's not much of a help for his sanity, together with the undeniable sleep deprivation.

It even happened that he caught himself talking to no one, muttering words under his breath he didn't realize were coming out of his mouth.

Carefully he sets the little tool in his hands aside and rubs over his face. His hands feel cold, his heart is beating slower than usual... his whole body screams to let him sleep. But Scud refuses to.

He can't – he's not strong enough to face those images. The angry voice of his father, Sharon's face with the dead eyes, a hundred glistening pairs of sharp fangs. He will never forget one single of them, he remembers every one of them.

What did he tell Deacon again? That he's more than what people did to him? Well, clearly he's not. In that moment, when it was just him and the vampire, he had felt the need to prove how strong he is. That he is not one of those humans who give up easily. What a fake. With each passing day the realization of a freedom that drips through his fingers like water, something he was never meant to hold nor possess, steps deeper into his mind and his heart. Scud knows he will never leave. He will die here, possibly at the hand of his master or some other bloodthirsty vampire in an outrage.

Hopefully sooner than later.

Scud won't kill himself. But if it happens, he won't fight either.

The sound of the door falling shut doesn't even startle him. The sponge in his head tells him to turn around and at least see who it is. But what does that matter? What does it all matter.

“I'm back.”

“I know”, Scud mutters. “Welcome home.”

“What's that?”

Deacon reaches for a small packet on the table. Scud lazily lets his gaze glide over. Oh, right. The packet.

“Petty was here”, he says, words slurring. “Said it came with the other mail stuff. There's no sender on it, but it's safe. The guards checked.”

Deacon hums, turning and investigating the packet. It's light, can't be too much in it.

“Weird, can't remember to have ordered anything”, he murmurs.

Scud shrugs, head too heavy to think of a more appropriate way to react to his master's scruple.

“Hey, do you mind if I go outside a bit? Could need a smoke.”

He's regarded with a pensive look, the way this psychiatrist chick looked at him back in the orphanage. God, he had hated that bitch so much. But differently than her Deacon doesn't try to crack open his skull to take a closer look at the soup that is his brain. He lets him be, this one time.

“Sure.”

Scud nods and rises with wobbly legs from his chair. His right foot fell asleep and now pins and needles are shooting up his leg as he teeters over to the balcony. When did the door become so heavy? He pushes and presses for an excruciatingly long moment before an arm reaches over his shoulder, and pulls. The door opens instantly and Scud stands in front of it, sheepish and tries to blend out the rising awkwardness.

Whatever.

The night is clear, a little colder than the last nights have been, but at least it doesn't rain. Not like that would bother Scud, but it's easier to light a cigarette without a monsoon tearing at the tip.

He searches his pocket, always the back pockets first, out of habit, before he realizes that the one lighter he possessed for longer than two weeks had been taken from him along with all the other stuff in his bag, including the bag itself, the night he was corned and put into a cage. Ready to be sold as a slave.

Not even a slave, a pet.

And apparently, he doesn't even have a cigarette.

Dimly, slightly blended by the light from the opposite building – does it have to be this crude, jeez? - he feels a cigarette being shoved between his fingertips and then there's a flame flickering next to it.

“When was the last time you slept?”

“Today”, Scud lies. It comes automatically, like a lot of other things. He can say a lot of things without feeling them, or wanting to feel them.

The stub feels warm against his lips. There are goosebumps on his arms from the cold wind pulling at his clothes, driving under the thin fabric of his shirt and clawing at his skin like hungry hands.

“Are you still mad at me?”

“Why would I be mad at you?”

Yeah, why would he. Deacon did nothing wrong. He couldn't, he's the master. If Scud's mood really displeased him he would have changed it to his willing. Dumb question.

The nicotine doesn't clear his head, but that's not what Scud was aiming for. The first drag is always the best, the way the smoke burns down and into the lungs, filling them and clouding his mind with nothing but lightheaded bliss for a split second. Then the body's fear of suffocating forces him to exhale, inhale, exhale. Take another drag, let it slide down the throat. Let it burn him up.

“Watch this.”

He tips his head back a little, opening his mouth to dart out his tongue. A small bubble is hanging on it, wildly twitching around like an ADHD kid on a sugar high before it sets free to dangle off into the sky in a wild zigzag.

His eyes try to follow it's path, but they quickly lose track of it. He has seen that plenty of times already. Nothing new.

Deacon is fairly interested, going by the expression of surprise and mild disgust on his face.

“Nice”, he comments slowly. Even in the dim light of the balcony his eyes are clear and of a summer day blue. They would be pretty, if they weren't so dead.

They spend the next minutes in silence, both of them trailing their own thoughts. Every time the tip of Deacon's cigarette lights up it catches Scud's eyes for a second, but then his mind drifts off again. Sinks back into pleasant numbness, weird thoughts scraping at the inside of his skull without awakening any feeling in him.

The wince runs through the whole of his body, like an electric jolt, when a hand lands on his shoulder.

“Go to bed, Scud. You're falling asleep on your feet.”

A picture forms in front of his eyes. Blurry though, but he can make out the living room in the small flat of his parents. He looks over someone's shoulder with his nose nestled against dark short hair. An acetous smell fills his memory.

“Come on.”

He lets the hand guide him back into the apartment, distantly noticing the missing of a stub between his fingers. It feels much warmer inside now. His skin shivers against the change of climate and he almost stumbles. But the grip around his arm, careful and firm, keeps him from falling face-first to greet the floor.

Petty did get him a bed. It's only small since the room itself isn't that big, but it's comfortable, with a mattress that slightly gives in to Scud's weight. He blinks and then he's standing in front of his door.

“Goodnight, Scud.”

“Night”, he mumbles hoarsely.

 

**xXxXx**

 

When the door closes Deacon lets out a small sigh. If Scud keeps on ignoring his body's needs then he won't have to worry about their delicate situation that much longer. The human is still too thin, too pale, his movements uncoordinated. A few days ago he had knocked over a glass and it exploded into sharp crystals, sliding over the floor and circling his bare feet. Scud had looked as if he was about to faint. Mostly from the panic kicking his heart pace up until even Deacon felt it tug at his chest.

He suppresses the urge to take a look and see if Scud made it to his bed.

Since he left the clinic, Missouri's words were chasing around in his head. The way she explained it to him... it sounded too easy. Too simple. Just, ignoring the fact he's a human. Or more why it's a bad thing that Scud is a human. But why is it a bad thing? Something inside him goes rigid at the question.

It's nothing Deacon Frost should think about.

A little lost feeling he shuffles through the apartment, picking up random things, examining them before putting them back. It's just when he rounds the table that he remembers the mail from earlier.

They're mostly bills, some invitations to parties he wouldn't even attend if his fangs depended on it. And the packet. It's really not that big, but it makes Deacon curious and cautious at the same time.

Just because the guards said it was safe, doesn't mean it had to be safe. He engages a pack of untalented gorillas who hope for him to eventually sink his canines into their flesh to make them one of his kind. Up to this day that has never happened and Deacon doesn't plan on keeping his part of the contract anyway.

The wrapping crackles painfully loud in the otherwise silent apartment. He opens the brown paper, tilts it – and a CD slides into his hand.

For one moment Deacon just stands and stares at the little thing.

When he turns it, there's a small note sticking to the back.

_Nothing compares to the first._

The handwriting is slightly familiar to him, the way the letters are stretched upwards and leaning forward just a little. It sends a shiver slowly creeping down his spine.

The next moment goes by in a kind of blur. He walks over to the TV, kneels down in front of the DVD player and carefully slides the little thing in. Then he stands, the drizzling sound of the TV reaching through the sudden fog in his head and Deacon stares at the image that starts to enlighten in front of his eyes.

 

**xXxXx**

 

_They stumble down the short way from the kitchen to the bedroom of his parents._

„ _Quick, quick!“_

_She opens the wardrobe and pushes him in, shutting the wooden doors behind him just in time before Josh hears the blustering steps of his father coming closer._

“ _Elizabeth!”_

_His voice is full of anger, even more than usual now that he discovered what Josh did to his latest attempt of a flash bomb. Josh doesn't know what a flash bomb is, only that he shouldn't have tried to use it as a bouncing ball._

_It hadn't bounced at all, only made that cracking sound that sent the hairs in his neck stand on edge immediately._

“ _Where is he?”_

“ _No, you can't do that. He didn't mean to-”_

_The end of her sentence breaks in a falling stutter. His own heart beats so loudly in his chest that it almost drowns out the growl of his father._

“ _Didn't mean to what? Destroy everything as soon as he touches it, as he did with our lives? You can't keep on spoiling him like this, Elizabeth. He has to learn to deal with the consequences of his doing!”_

“ _You'd hurt him, I can't let you do that!”_

“ _Hurt him?”_

_There's a pause after that._

_Josh scrambles over the dusty floor until his heels hit the wall. Trying to escape the noise._

“ _What would it matter, really? I didn't want this child. You, you forced it upon me, so don't you tell me how to treat the little brat!”_

“ _God, Peter, please”, his mother begs and her voice topples over in sheer panic. “How can you say something like that?”_

“ _Because that's how it is!” The yell of his father rings through the closed doors, hitting something inside of Josh he can't name. But it wakes a thought in him. His father doesn't love him. It's not a realization, just a feeling that popped up like an exploding corn in a too hot pan._

“ _This child, this-- I told you we cannot have kids, I said it would be irresponsible. Have you ever listened to me, just one time, Elizabeth? I said, I told you... and then he was there and it was expected of me to love him. This is your fault, not mine. This is your child, not mine!”_

_The response of his mother is mumbled, but Josh can hear the hiccup in her voice. The one she always gets when she's close to crying. He swallows hard and the knot in his chest pains with every new breath._

“ _We're done here.”_

_The fading sound of steps releases a wave of relief inside of him, still Josh doesn't dare to call out to his mother yet. The door would open when she thinks everything is fine again. As fine as it could ever be._

_And when the doors open, she smiles her sad smile, reaches out for him and pulls him close into a embrace that cracks this spot inside of him wider open each time. He slings his arms around her neck and mumbles into her golden curls._

_She nods and the wetness against his ear doesn't startle Josh._

 

**xXxXx**

 

Deacon has seen a lot of things.

He has seen the rising and falling of empires, the birth of kings, the death of the good and the crowning of the bad. He has seen some of the most important people in history, shared a chat about philosophy, spoke his name in thirty languages and let it be written down by men of all over the world.

Deacon has seen everything.

And now he sees Scud.

He recognized him immediately, the way someone would recognize an old friend in the middle of a crowd from afar, after not having seen him for a long time. And this is Scud, his Scud, although he looks differently. Not as pale as now, not as famished and there's a light in his eyes Deacon hasn't seen until this day, until this very moment. He's crying, silently, like he always does and it's a guilty moment of relief for Deacon when he realizes it's not his fault Scud tends to shush himself, but at the same time it makes him uncomfortable, because it feels like interrupting a very intimate moment. What moment he really stumbled into, Deacon doesn't know yet.

“ _Please.”_

The word is all too familiar to him, the way small lips form around the letters and let it drop in a breath at the end.

“ _Please.”_

“ _What do you want, my little pet?”_

Deacon's face darkens. He knows that voice, knows the sick sound that makes his insides wrench in disgust and poke at the ferocious animal inside of him. His whole form gets rigid, and that's when he notices the bruise under Scud's left eye, the visible print of fingers around the throat and a barely healed pair of puncture points.

“ _Please let me go, please. I- I'll do anything you want, but... don't do this.”_

The room is bright enough to show the bed Scud sits on and how he hunches his shoulders, arms tightly clutched around the chest, naked body angled to shield himself from any looks.

“ _Oh, you will do anything I want, pet. But I don't have to let you go for that.”_

Scud whimpers, and something inside of Deacon rears up in pain.

Another presence steps in front of the picture. He feels physically sick at the sight of Anton MacHorvath's form sinking down next to Scud, every muscle in his arms bunching when a pale hand explores the human surface.

The next words go down in a mumble, just like Scud himself as he is pushed back and down. It's a constant flow of begging and faint pleads. When Scud turns his head to the side, eyes glassy with horror and the realization that it's over the camera shakes a little.

And the disgust turns to wrath.

Someone, someone is filming this. Someone is standing in the same room, breathing the same air and just  _watching_ .

He shuts them out, all the ugly words Anton says and the sounds blur into a background music as Deacon watches, takes in the pictures. He sees Scud fall and break when he hits the hard ground.

It goes by, one scene after the other, and he doesn't know how long he's already standing there when the pleading turns into shouts, turns into screaming and yelling, a fight Scud could never win. The sound echoes in the space of the living room and hits Deacon right back. It sinks deep, bores into a spot inside of him.

It sinks deep.

 

**xXxXx**

 

The dream rips like a soft spider web and he wakes into darkness. The sky is covered and the moon's light only sheepishly shining into his room. Scud tries to breath the knot in his chest away.

He doesn't like darkness.

With stiff movements he rises, sits up and it's like he's pulling his head from the bedding of old memories and dives back into reality. It's no difference, the sick feeling inside of him remains.

There are sounds outside of his room, muffled by the door but clear enough to catch his attention. Through the fog inside his head Scud feels like he maybe should lie down again, just lie down and pretend he didn't hear anything. But his feet are moving and then his hand is on the door knob, turning it slowly.

The apartment is dimly lit, strange shadows cast along the floor before his door. They flicker restlessly, like a candle's soft light.

He doesn't have to make many steps, then he stands in the hall. And everything goes numb at the sight. At the sound. At the memories gushing to the surface like ice cold water. Waves crashing around him, pulling him down and it feels like he never left.

The noises fill his head and they sound so familiar. He has listened to those screams for a long time, had tasted the blood in the back of his mouth and how his throat had gone raw after a while. He can taste it now, the blood.

Hands are shaking, feet barely able to hold up the sudden heavy weight. His own shadow turns to a quivering mess when he backs to stumble away, away from the scene displaying in front of him.

Scud wants to run but there is no way out, there never was.

His hands find a surface that gives in and shoulder first he slams into the door, opening and closing it with a dispatch that leaves him breathless.

Everything else closes around him, and he lies down, distantly recognizing the bowl of cold as the bathroom's tub. The ceramic feels weirdly hot against his cheek, and wet.

His eyes flutter and the tears collecting at the tips of his lashes sprinkle onto his skin. The white walls turn to a blur. Arms reaching up, hands drawing through hair, to cover his ears. To drown out all noises.

In the back of his head Scud can hear him screaming.

 

**xXxXx**

 

After some time his voice had died out. Now he is silent, no sound coming from him anymore. It's even more horrific.

“ _Look at me.”_

Deacon's gaze flickers up and he sees them, both of them. They don't look at him. They're occupied. He is just a watcher, a silent participant. Like the one holding the camera and catching every second of the scene.

He watches it all fall apart.

Scud opens his eyes. He had kept them shut for the past minutes, now all life has left them. It's like there never has been something behind the blue.

Deacon sees the fangs which glister in the light.

“ _Say you love me, and maybe I won't bite you then.”_

Scud blinks. His mouth is a slack line, no showing of anything. Like nothing happened. Like he never lived.

It feels like Deacon's heart is ripped right out of him and leaving a vacuum inside of his chest.

The words are raspy, catching, tripping over his tongue. _“I love you.”_

When Anton sinks his canines into his throat, Scud whimpers.

The scene explodes into a thousand sparkles, shatters of plastic, metal and a wild tangle of cable and plaster flying through the air when the wooden table crashes into the TV. It's loud, it's violent and it's just what Deacon needed.

He stares at the hole in the wall and fixates a swinging cable. His hands are shaking and the remote nothing but a pile of shattered plastic to his feet.

Suddenly the room feels small, way too small. Without wasting any time on grabbing a jacket Deacon heads for the door. Just in time to almost run into Petty.

“Mr. Frost. I have some sheets for you to sign, sir, it's about--”

“Not now, Miss Bloom.”

He is surprised at how stable his voice sounds.

The doors of the elevator slide open.

“But, Mr. Frost...”

With a sigh he turns to face the young familiar.

“Go home, Petty”, he says tersely. “You have free for the night. Go and meet someone, drink something, have fun.”

“And-and where do you go, sir?”

He pauses a moment.

“Killing something.”

The doors close and the last thing he sees is the slipping expression of his familiar and a mumbled “Good night, Mr. Frost”.

 

**xXxXx**

 

The sun is sending her first shy beams when Deacon returns.

It had been a good night, his clothes are ready to be shredded because those stains would probably never wash out. The bodies were safely hidden, what was left of them at least and his hunger had been satisfied.

But not his anger.

All he can do is try and let those thoughts not corrupt his mind further. He had done a terrible mistake by just letting them hit him in the wrong side. As soon as he's back in the apartment he grabs the CD to destroy it, once and forever, and never think about what he saw again.

He changes into new clothes, but isn't quite satisfied with the way it feels against his skin. It reeks of humans and death. Maybe he should take a shower before heading to lay down for the day and hope that sleep will turn out as the ultimate solution for everything.

His mind feels like a heavy weight inside of his head, unmoving and silent, yet at the same time racing and chasing different thoughts and pictures before his eyes. But all Deacon feels is the spreading nothingness, the pitch black spot in his chest that starts to spread through flesh and veins like deathly cancer.

The bathroom is unpleasantly bright, even with the light turned off.

Still his fingers find their way to the switch, out of habit. Out of imitated human behavior.

A movement to his left catches his attention and for a very paranoid second Deacon fears something worse than just a play of his eyes.

And maybe it is worse, but he wouldn't admit that.

Admit that the sight of Scud curled together as much as the tiny space in the tub would allow it, fingers digging into the layers of clothes covering his slim body and shivering in what must be a soul-tearing nightmare, haunted by the same pictures ghosting before his own eyes, hurts.

With careful steps he approaches the scene. Unsure of what to do Deacon crouches down and slowly reaches out with a hand.

Scud jumps awake as soon as his fingertips brush over his shoulder. With reddened, sleep-hazed eyes he stares up at him. For a moment no one says anything. They just look, both just as confused as the other one is.

“Hey”, Deacon mumbles.

“Hey”, Scud croaks and turns a little.

“What are you doing here? Why aren't you in your bed?”

“I'm not?” Scud asks, sounding honestly surprised. His head drops and he looks at the walls of the tub, seemingly confused by his residence.

His mouth opens and closes again. Deacon watches him, feeling the frown start to shadow his expression.

When he turns and looks at him with a lost gaze Deacon knows the spot gapes further.

“It's already late... or early, but, uhm, I'm going... I'm going now.”

He stands up. But doesn't get far as a hand wraps around his forearm. Scud stares up at him and his eyes are round in plead. Halfheartedly Deacon tries to shake his hand off, but it seems more like an unintended twitch. Scud doesn't let go of him.

“Please stay”, he says, his voice only a low rumble.

Deacon looks at him, making another weak attempt at freeing his sleeve. But Scud's grip only tightens.

“Please”, he whispers. His cheeks and nose are reddened, some strands, wet by tears, clinging to his forehead. He looks utterly exhausted, and helpless.

The ache inside of him grows through his whole body, and, silently, Deacon nods. With some shifting they both fit into the bathtub, Deacon carefully pressing against Scud's back and gently, like he could somehow hurt those shattered remains, wraps his arm around the pet's slim waist. Scud lets him be and squeezes his hand lightly. A wordless thank.

  


He doesn't know how long they laid like this when Scud begins to shiver next to him, shiver turning into tremble until a small keen wrenches free from the human's throat. Dimly he sees his own hand reach up to brush some strands of dark hazel behind a ridiculously round ear and lean forward to ghost over the exposed skin with his lips.

He whispers into Scud's ear, and the pet relaxes under his touch, slumping back against him like a puppet cut free from it's strings.

The other body is a warm pressure against his own and, for the first time in his unholy existence, Deacon doesn't think at all.


	7. Chapter 7

“ _Come on, don't die, don't die.”_

_The pet's head sways uselessly to the side as the car takes a sharp left, smearing more blood onto his shirt. Deacon brushes the hair out of his eyes, hoping for a sign that he heard him. But the pet stays silent, chest barely rising, blowing faint huffs against Deacon's shoulder._

“ _Don't die. Stay with me”, he mumbles and presses down onto the bleeding wound. Thick blood pools through his fingers, running over his wrist. The smell wakes the predator in him and he feels the Thirst scratch at the walls of his mind, demanding it's prey._

_But Deacon knows better than to satisfy his needs now, knows of a better use for this human. If he only makes it..._

_The heart that once pounded so quickly in his chest, fastened by fear at the sight of Deacon, is only a slow, breaking stutter. With each faint ba-dump terror takes more and more hold of him and his grip involuntarily tightens around the pet's bony shoulders._

_He presses a finger to the human's carotid and the rhythm of life, shy but still there, calms him. He concentrates on that, closing his eyes and feeling for the small heartbeat._

“ _Don't die, don't die”, Deacon whispers, leaning his head against that of the pet and feeling his breath ghost over his own face._

_The heart jumps as if to reassure him._

 

 

**xXxXx**

 

 

He wakes into darkness. The familiar, all-swallowing pitch black and Scud doesn't need a window to know it's night. It's always night when he wakes. The only thing different about this certain one is the unusual companion. There's a weight next to his, heavy and unmoving. Even in the black of the room Scud knows there is no rising and falling of a human looking chest, the slow but steady beat of a living heart or an emotion besides anger in those light blue eyes. Deacon is looking at him. He's frowning. Scud knows, he's frowning all the time.

“You're awake”, he says.

Scud nods. His fingertips press into the soft of the mattress, but he keeps silent. Deacon can see him perfectly fine in the darkness.

He keeps his expression steady when the weight shifts and the dip in the mattress disappears. Light falls into the room as the door opens and stings in his tired eyes.

His heart skips a beat when Deacon is about to step outside.

“Can you leave the door open?”

Scud doesn't want to stay behind in black blindness.

Deacon doesn't turn around to look at him or bothers with an answer. He leaves the door wide enough open to let some light slip in and fall onto the spot where he lied seconds ago. Scud brushes with his knuckles over the spot.

 

It's completely cold.

 

 

**xXxXx**

 

 

“ _This is your big toe, this is your pointy toe, this is your middle toe, this is your ring toe and this...”, his mother laughs when Josh giggles and tries to pull his foot away, “...this is your pinky toe.”_

“ _There's no pinky toe”, he protests and wriggles away from her hands when she pinches his sides, pulling another laugh from him._

_She sighs, brushing the longer strands of hair behind his ear._

“ _Oh baby”, she mumbles and her gaze gets lost again, something that happens more often now. “There are so many things you wouldn't believe exist.”_

 

 

**xXxXx**

 

 

There have often been times, dark times, when Scud had the wish to give up. When his mind was about to drown in chaos and his heart felt like it was tied to stones, dragging it down into the dark that threatened to fill him up until his insides grew cold in terror, that's when Scud had stopped for a moment and thought. He usually wasn't much of a thinker, not when he could prevent it because thoughts were so easy to slip free and suddenly a spark became a forest fire that gnawed on the tightropes keeping him bound to sanity.

But there have been times... and Scud remembered every one of it. The first was on his fourteenth birthday, in the orphanage, when he had found himself crouched down in the kitchen at midnight, staring at the clock hanging over the oven as his shaking fingers held the knife in a tight clutch. He had wished to end his life then and there. There was no sense in struggling when there was no reason to keep on. Scud had already known this back then.

Then he turned eighteen, and he was finally, finally, able to leave the orphanage and it's walls clotted with memories of dead eyed children, coldness and the smell of antiseptic. But he also left his only safe haven and after years of seeing the world through poorly cleaned windows it seemed so different.

Scud had expected to find hope with his first steps back into life. But what he found was betrayal, violence and a weak recall of what it should have been.

There have been many times when Scud found himself on the edge of something he could never undo. But there has always been something to keep him from pulling the trigger.

Hope. Weak, unsteady and nothing more than a faint flicker in the back of his head. But it had been there and it had been enough to keep his legs moving, to keep his heart pounding and the chaos inside of him tamed.

When everything that ever defined him had left, this flicker of hope had been the last thing, the last part of him.

Now, what is he without it?

 

 

**xXxXx**

 

 

The chilled night air does nothing to cool him down. Deacon Frost feels on fire, angry flames licking at every muscle, twitching, flexing in preparation for a fight that must never happen.

“Fucking bastard”, he hisses and tosses the stub of his cigarette over the balcony's edge.

How could MacHorvath... how does he even dare to? It's an open provocation and it was meant to land a hit on him. On him. That twat should know better than to play with someone like Deacon Frost. His chest tightens though there is no heart pounding in rhythm to his anger.

“Blind wrath won't get you anywhere now.”

Deacon doesn't turn. He grits his teeth, almost swallowing the words right back down again as he speaks.

“I know. But I can't just--”

“Ignore it?” Mercury interrupts him. “Exactly, that's what you shouldn't do.”

“I was gonna say lose my head, but I guess you meant something in that direction, too.”

Mercury presses her lips together before smacking them in a way that infuriates and somewhat amuses Deacon at the same time. It's a habit of hers she carries since her human life, taking it into the other one, into this. Seeing something so familiar is a soothing anchor between the tides that have been crashing around him lately.

“I'm glad you came”, he says, quieter.

Mercury turns back to him, hands pressed into her hips and looks him over a few times.

“It's not like I had a chance”, she mumbles.

They contemplate each other for a moment, both remembering easier times, when things were not as blurred as they are now. The lines were clearer.

“I made a mistake”, Deacon says and that's when he notices the tiredness swinging in his voice.

Mercury tilts her head. “Which one do you mean? The one where you broke your contract with MacHorvath? Or the one where you stole his pet, simultaneously insulting him and pulling even more of his hatred onto you? Or maybe when you decided to keep the pet, for whatever reasons I'm really not interested in at this point? Or of course, my personal favorite, the one where you got emotionally involved with a human?”

She makes a pause, clearing her throat to shake the angry tremble off her voice.

“So, yes, you could call it a mistake, Deacon.”

He ducks his shoulders, like a child intimidated by it's mother's tongue-lashing.

“What am I supposed to do, Mercury?” he asks quietly.

“Get rid of him”, she replies without any doubt disturbing her tone. “Maybe you can sooth MacHorvath this way. Give back to him what belongs to him.”

When he doesn't respond Mercury takes a step into his direction.

“Anton had always been a manipulating piece of shit, easily picking out his opponent's weaknesses and then going down on them like some starved bloodhound. You think he will stop? Deacon, he will not. You have to do something. Now! You cannot wait any longer, the next attack might k--”

“Stop.”

A wind blows by, just a distant whisper as it glides past the tall buildings. The sky is illuminated by the city's lights and no star is able to break the wall of clouds. Back then, when Deacon was still human, he had often looked up and counted the stars above his head. But there had been too many and they all looked so similar... still every one of them had been beautiful. 

The night, together with the stars, lost their magic when he died.

“Deacon...”

“Give me time”, he says, his voice firm, “to think.”

He doesn't look at her when she answers, but her small “of course” is full of regret.

 

 

**xXxXx**

 

 

Time is of no matter anymore, nothing is. And so Scud keeps his eyes closed and lets the thoughts wander for the first time since years. The pillow under his head is soft and warmed by his own skin, but it smells like Deacon. He must have carried him over during the night. His fingers bury into the blanket as his mind remembers.

 

 

**xXxXx**

 

 

“ _Why don't you just leave him?”_

_Josh tries to blend out the voice of his aunt Madge. It's too high to be pleasant listening, but only when she's angry about something. His father always says it sounds like someone stepped on a mouse when she talks._

_Above his head a spoon clings against the thin side of a cup filled with coffee. The strong flavor wanders through the kitchen. Josh likes the smell of coffee, it has something calming. The whole flat smells of coffee._

_His mother pauses before she answers: “It's not that easy.”_

“ _Of course it is”, Madge hisses and her voice slips even further up. “You pack your things, grab that kid and leave. Why are you waiting for him? He's a bloody bastard!”_

_The leg of his mother twitches nervously, almost prodding his side as he sits on the floor under the table, in his hand something he fished out of his father's bin._

“ _Stop, you stop now”, she says and Josh can imagine how her grip around the cup tightens. “I love this man, I loved him from the first minute I met him and I still love him after everything that happened. How dare you judge him? He's not perfect, but who in this world is?”_

“ _Oh, Eli! How can you be so naïve? That's not you, girl, take off those pink glasses and face the truth, dammit.”_

 _The response of his mother is a hiss and Josh cuts his finger on the thing's side. H_ e _flinches, but keeps silent as a drop of blood pools at the surface. He licks it off, like he has seen his mother do when she pricked her finger while sewing and the taste makes his face cringe in disgust._

_But Josh doesn't complain. Something in him knows this is best for his mother._

 

 

**xXxXx**

 

 

“Scud.”

He doesn't respond. Nothing in him feels the need to. Instead he keeps his eyes closed, focusing on his slow steady heart beat.

“I know you're awake.”

The voice seems weirdly distant, like from afar through a thick fog. Scud listens to that voice but the words don't make much sense to him.

The shadow on his shoulder disappears after a moment. Or some minutes? Maybe an hour even? Scud's eyes stay closed as he slips back into a dream filled with distorted pictures.

 

 

**xXxXx**

 

 

“He won't get up. I talked to him but he plays dead meat.”

“Of course he doesn't move, he's probably slipped into some... mind-protecting-survival-mode. No wonder after what happened. How could you even--?”

“Missouri, cut it. Just tell me what to do.”

There is a short pause at the other end of the connection.

“Give him time, some room for himself. Or else you will lose him completely. Give him time.”

But time is what Deacon doesn't have.

 

 

**xXxXx**

 

 

_He stares at the smoking joint pointing into his direction. The other boys look at him expectantly and so Josh takes it, closes his lips around the warm end and inhales. His head floats in clouds and everything just flies away like that. A pleasant feeling, a new feeling._

 

 

**xXxXx**

 

 

“You can't keep silent like that forever, Scud.”

He wishes he could tell him that this phrase got old long ago.

 

 

**xXxXx**

 

 

“Three days, Missouri!”

“He needs time--”

“Fuck you!”

The phone shatters as it hits the wall, leaving a small hole next to the large one. He stares at it furiously, then leaves the apartment to yell at a wide-eyed Petty to get someone to cover that up.

 

 

**xXxXx**

 

 

“ _I wish you would never have to cry, my sweetheart, but... that's not how things go. I love you.”_

 

 

**xXxXx**

 

 

Everything is standing still. Even his own body seems to have frozen, the sound of his heart beat and the rush of blood in his ears only a faint background music, something he doesn't recognize as his anymore. Not even the shadows move, they don't scare him anymore.

Scud doesn't know whether his eyes are open or closed. But that doesn't matter, the world wouldn't look much different anyway.

When a slice of light falls on his face and breaks onto the wall Scud follows it's path with lazy eyes. It almost looks like it's running down the surface like water, sinking down into every pore and covering the smallest cuts. It's bright, but it's cold and Scud wishes he had a blanket to blend it out.

Then his body moves. Confused at first Scud doesn't realize the cold hands grabbing his shoulder, his arms and when he does it's too late and he's in the air and the world turns upside down.

His hands slip over a soft surface on their search for a halt.

“...down”, he rasps, his voice thin and weak from not being used for such a long time, “let me down...”

And the world turns again. Stars explode in front of his eyes and he gets sucked into the ground. But the hands are there to hold him, they don't let him fall and he sinks down onto the couch, his whole body going slack like a rag doll's.

“Look at me.”

Slowly Scud cranes his head up, lets it sink against the backrest because it's too much of an effort to hold it on his own.

He looks at Deacon through tired eyes. But his are awake and bright.

Scud can see his jaw clench in frustration and his hands are hidden in the pockets of his slacks because they tremble in anger. That's what Deacon usually looks like, angry, frustrated. It's no different now.

When Deacon speaks again, his voice isn't shaking or angry. It's firm, but the words seem unsure, like they never found their way over his lips before.

“My father was a known man, not exactly a lord, but he had his people and his people loved him. He was good and strong. Like my mother. Many women died after they gave birth to their second child, but she just seemed to grow stronger with each day my younger sister survived. I was with them until my 28th year of living, and then... then I met my creator. It happened as I traveled back home from a nearby village. People had told me not to go by night, they said men mysteriously disappeared to never be seen again. But I was cocky, convinced my sword and experience would protect me... and so I lost it all in one night. My life, my family, my name. At first I fought it, this gift, as my creator called it. I didn't want it. But neither did I want to die, and after the first time I fed on a living human...”

He stops, takes a step back, then seems to change his mind, shakes his head and clears his throat.

“But I didn't leave. My father, he sent his men to look for me, I heard them call my name in the nights. They searched so long... and all this time I watched my family, watched them grieve for me until one day they gave their hopes away. I watched my father grow old and tired. And how my mother got sick and passed away. And all of my father's people cried for her, it was... it was like they had lost their own mother. I watched my sister grow up to a woman, marrying a man I didn't know but of I was sure he would never treat her as well as she deserved--”

Scud didn't notice the excited jumping of his heart until now.

“I became cold, gave myself to the night and turned into what my creator had planned for me. A monster. I wasn't the man I used to be, and so I gave the name away... I can't remember it. From all the things, the name is what I forgot. Some day it didn't belong to me anymore, it just seemed unneeded to keep it in my memory.”

After he ends, the room is completely silent. Only the quick pounding of Scud's heart interrupts the still of the moment. Carefully, limbs still stiff, he pushes himself up on the couch. His head feels heavy but he manages to lift it up enough to look at the other man. Deacon seems to be frozen in place, but he doesn't look away, doesn't avoid his gaze.

“Why do you tell me this?” Scud asks quietly.

Again there is a pause, a moment where nothing seems to move between them.

“I made a mistake, Scud. I gave up and turned away from life. It seemed impossible, like a far away shore and I felt my legs and arms get tired. Instead of fighting what was forced onto me against my will I let it bent me, let it overtake me and corrupt me until everything that had ever been me was erased and dead. I gave up, gave it all away, didn't care anymore... that's not how it should have been.”

If any of this was true, if any of this was right, then Scud caught a glimpse oft what had been before the night. Before the dark there was light and it had been bright and full of life.

He stares up at the man whose name he doesn't know and never will because he gave it all away. His heart stings at the thought, that he will forever be lost. Scud would have liked to know him.

“What I want to say is--”, Deacon begins, stops.

“...it's worth it”, Scud mumbles. “It's worth it.”

Deacon swallows, but nods.

 


	8. Chapter 8

The next time he catches Scud's look there is something in the young man's eyes. He can't tell what it is, but when he returns the gaze Scud doesn't look away.

Deacon waits for the confusion to turn into anger. He has to wait longer now.

 

**xXxXx**

 

The paper feels rough and uneven between his fingertips. It doesn't only look old, it smells old. Dust particles lessened the black ink to a faint gray, barely rising against the lutescent texture of each page. Scud lets one fingertip glide over the letters. They don't make much sense to him as they are written in a foreign language. The books only caught his interest for standing in one of the apartment's corners, as if to be hidden from curious eyes. Having a lot of time to kill on his hands, now that he is woken from his catatonic state, Scud investigates the home of his master more carefully. He wouldn't admit it aloud, but he does this with the hope of maybe staying a little longer here.

He got used to the angled rooms, the glass walls, the wide balcony and the shutters which glide down with a bare sound. By now Scud memorized what he is allowed to touch and what he better keeps his hands off to avert a dark glare from across the room.

Sometimes, though, he leans against one of the glass walls, pressing his hand against the cool surface with the knowledge that it will leave a faint print, just to tickle Deacon's temper.

The man would step close to him, close enough that Scud has to lean his head back a little, offering his throat, to avoid breathing into his face. They would contemplate each other a moment, before Deacon says “Don't do that”, lowly, just to earn a roguish twinkle out of eyes a deeper blue than his. But Scud does as he is told, would always so and pushes himself off the wall. One time he, of course accidentally, brushed his hip against that of his master and Deacon jerked a little backwards. Scud pretended like he didn't notice, but when he turned a slightly wicked smile started to spread across his face.

“Having found something interesting?”

Scud doesn't look up. He closes the book and carefully shoves it back between the others standing on a solid, mahogany shelf. They look even older, the wooden back carved with cuts and signs of having been passed between hands for years and years. Scud presses his thumb to one especially deep cut.

Almost like his own skin.

“Nah”, he says and turns away from the damaged thing. “Reading's not really mine. I rather watch some old horror movie, at least used to.”

The slightly dismissive expression on Deacon's face was predictable. Scud snorts and turns to walk back into the living room.

“Guess you never watched a movie.”

“I did”, Deacon says and it sounds almost defending. “When the very first movie came out I was there to watch it.”

“Wasn't that, like, just a train riding towards the camera? Heard people flipped their shit and ran out of the cinema screaming 'cause they thought it was a real train hitting them.”

Now it's Deacon's turn to chuckle. It still sounds strange coming from him.

“Yeah, it was kind of the spectacle. But that wasn't the only movie I watched.” He sits down on the couch opposite of Scud's. “I saw the first Dracula movie.”

“You're kidding”, Scud laughs, accepting the cigarette the other man offers him. “How was it?”

“Well”, Deacon starts, lighting the tip and taking a long drag, rolling the taste on his tongue for a moment. “How would you like it if, let's say, sheep made a movie about you and claimed that you could turn into sunflowers?”

Scud thinks about that for a moment. “Not so funny, I guess”, he admits.

Deacon shakes his head, the cigarette firmly held between his fingers.

“So it's not true then? You can't turn into bats?”

“Careful, Scud.”

“Sorry, I just--” Scud cuts himself off, not able to contain the little laugh falling from his lips. “It's just, I don't know, there are so many of you. Don't you have some cool super powers or something?”

“I can move three times faster than a human, the worst wounds heal within 24 h and the only things able to kill me are silver, sunlight and garlic. Not cool enough for you?”

“Nah”, Scud mumbles, searching Deacon's face for any sign of anger, but finding none. “I mean, if you could fly or had a cape... you know, 'cause capes make everything ten times cooler. Imagine Batman without a cape, just him in his little panties and those small tights, I mean--”

“Do you always talk this much shit?”

It sounds less harsh than intended and when Scud snorts loudly, he catches something like a smile pulling at the other man's mouth. He swears the flutter in his stomach is only because he didn't eat that night.

 

**xXxXx**

 

As glad as he is that Scud is back to life, because, yes, at this point Deacon ruffled himself to admit he is in fact glad, the delicate situation is a constant lingerer in his mind. His mood tilts every time he gets another disappointing call from his companions. The next time Mercury's name appears at the surface of his phone Deacon resists the urge to just ignore his priorities. One foot wrong and they would all be dead, this he is aware of.

“Nothing?” he asks before anything else.

There is a harsh breath at the other end of the connection. “No”, Mercury answers tersely and it sounds like she needs all of her composure to not break into a yelling fit.

“I see”, Deacon mumbles because there is nothing else to say. “Keep looking.”

With this he ends the short conversation. Better than to open another discussion of “Would you please think about it?” or “What have you become, Deacon?”. He doesn't want to think about either of those questions and refuses to with an almost childish stubbornness.

In all those years of his existence Deacon Frost has lost control of things exactly two times. He wouldn't let it happen again just to answer questions that aren't worth thinking about.

Still, when he sits, maltreating his phone with looks that are meant for a very different person, there is this feeling on his back, like long claws digging themselves into his flesh, ready to strip him off his skin and tear at his spine. It's the feeling of an approaching tailspin, and he doesn't like it. In moments like these, and Deacon knows it's a way too human thing, he remembers times that should be forgotten because they don't belong to his current lifestyle anymore. Times where he could count on a guiding hand, something to shelter him from those claws.

With an elongated nail he carves little lines into the expensive wood of his table. Shelter, what nonsense – Deacon Frost doesn't need someone to protect his ass. He wouldn't have been able to come all this way – as a non-pure blood, he thinks grimly – if he had counted on anyone but himself. Even Mercury and Quinn know only the necessary about him, since he is their creator and it is his duty to take care of them, not the other way around.

But... nothing speaks against a little guidance, right?

When he reaches for his phone his fingers don't hesitate this time as they fly over the buttons, searching his contacts until they find a name older than his own. It takes only a couple of rings, then a voice appears at the other end of the connection and Deacon opens his mouth to speak.

“It's me. We should talk.”

 

**xXxXx**

 

The door is wide open. Before him stretches a corridor, bathed in pure white, similar to that in Deacon's bedroom. The only thing aspirating something like life into it is a little white table, with a white vase and a white lily inside of it. What sense that has, escapes Scud completely.

He peeks through the door, letting his gaze glide up and down the walls and deliberately ignores the impatient huffs to his left.

“So”, he starts slowly. “You still serious about this?”

He glances at Deacon and is regarded with a look that would make him retreat right back inside if this situation wasn't so ridiculous and downright silly.

“Yes, I am. What about you?”

“Don't have much of a choice, do I? It's just... this so came out of the blue. A color I somewhat miss here, just like any other kind of color. Isn't that white a little overdoing it?”

His cheeky speech can't exactly cover the nervousness shaking his deep core. When Deacon came up to him, throwing a bundle of clothes into his lap with the words “Put this on. We're going out”, his jaw may or may not have dropped in both excitement and confusion.

“What--? Hey, wait up”, he mumbled and scrambled to his feet, following his master's pace. “What do you mean  _going out_? Like,  _out out_ , or? I don't get it.”

The glare he received made any other word get stuck in his throat.

“Yes,  _out out_. And I want you to look decent because we're going to visit a friend of mine. So, do me the favor and spare me your annoying little voice. It's like a high ringing tone inside my head every time you open your mouth and ask another of those dumb, unneeded questions. Just get yourself ready, okay?”

“Wait, you have friends?”

Scud was too excited to pout on the insult and so he slipped into the black slacks and the wine red shirt, feeling both awed and weird when he felt the fine fabric on his skin, taking in Deacon's scent because he was yet again wearing the man's clothes. His skin even looked a little less pale, and Scud was sure his master didn't just grab any clothes. Especially not if they were about to visit a friend of his, something which his brain refused to fully grasp since, even for a vampire, Deacon was a rather antisocial companion. Maybe it was due to the whole  _pet situation_ , as Mercury liked to call it, but she and Quinn had been the only vampires regularly showing up in his master's apartment. Now that he was thinking about it, Scud felt a little bad for covering up what Deacon had left of a social life.

All of this goes revue inside of his head as he hesitantly steps out of the apartment, the safe place where he has spent the past month inside of. They aren't even outside of the building and Scud's heart already jumps in utter tizzy.

Deacon leads him to a door which turns out to be an elevator. Scud doesn't like elevators, hates the small spaces and the metallic smell of them. But he keeps this to himself as he feels he has already strained the other man's nerves to a rather critical level.

As always when he's nervous, it awakes the urge to fill the tensed silence with chatter. He would have never dared to do so with Anton or any of his customers – not that they had anything to talk about – but he found himself a new confidence with Deacon.

“So, this friend – what's he like? You know him for long?”

“Scud, I'm immortal, every one I know I know for a long time.”

“...cool.”

Enough conversation for now.

Scud looks up at the ciphers lighting up every time they pass another level on their way down. He frowns when they ride past the first floor.

The doors glide open, releasing a soft  _ding_  and they stare into the black of the parking garage. Scud keeps close to Deacon as they walk through the barely lit place, suppressing the urge to turn his head and look behind him. Parking garages have always been creepy and Scud knows out of his own experience that they're a favored spot for shady folks of all kind. After all, he used to be one of them.

They reach a black sports car, the surface looking like it has never been used before. Scud looks it over with an unconvinced frown.

“Ever heard of status symbols?” he asks, glancing up at Deacon.

For a moment he is regarded with a cold glare, then followed by an even colder “Get in”.

He has his hand already reaching out for the backseat door when Deacon shakes his head.

“No, the front.”

Scud shrugs and turns to follow the command. Despite his despise for the modern car he inhales the full leather scent and feels an old quirk of his revive. Back in his former employer's workshop it always had been Scud who fixed the old cars. At the end of the day when his work was done Scud had dared to sit in the cars a little longer, sinking deep into the leather seats and imagining what he would do if he could actually afford a gold piece like this. Definitely not let it corrode in some garage.

Sadly, Deacon's car lacks the touch of old times the other cars would carry. Scud ignores how cramped the space is compared to a Mustang's and leans his head against the headrest, ready to space out when he feels the hairs in his neck stand up. When he turns Deacon is staring at him. Scud shakes his head in question.

“What is it?”

“Seat belt.”

“Yeah?”

“Put it on. Now.”

He bites back the sarky comment dancing on his tongue and reaches around for the desired object. As soon as the lock clicks Deacon hits reverse and Scud grabs the door handle for balance.

“Why do you drive anyway?” he asks, biting back a prayer when they not-so-smoothly round a corner.

“The man we are going to visit likes his privacy and two pairs of eyes is one pair too many already.”

“Mhm”, Scud breathes between pressed lips. “But you do want us to arrive there alive, right?”

“I'll think about it”, Deacon mumbles, chuckling when Scud throws him a dark glare. He slows down when they leave the parking garage, turning right to fill into the nightly L.A. traffic.

Scud knows this is a night like any other for the hundreds of people walking over the pavement. People who head home, just went out or on their way to another person who too would see this night as just a normal night.

But for Scud this is the first night outside of Deacon's apartment, outside of Anton's mansion with it's chambers and cells which he was never supposed to leave. He is here even though he shouldn't be and he sees things he thought he would never see again.

Scud never liked Los Angeles, but it's particularly beautiful tonight.

Every now and then he glances over to Deacon, but he is of course not as moved by the sight as him. Instead he seems to tense up with every passing minute, the relaxed expression long gone. Scud swallows the questions dancing on the tip of his tongue and leans his head back against the seat, staring up at the illuminated buildings with their endless rows of windows.

As they drive, the buildings get smaller, the streets no longer lighted by flashy signs and restaurants but street lights. They pass normal houses now. Some of them look very modern, with a large yard and some are made entirely of wood. By now Scud doesn't recognize the street names anymore. But they keep driving, past the houses, past the street lights until they reach the city limit. Scud rifles his memory. They should be in San Fernando Valley now as the mountain chain rises to their view.

“Wow”, Scud mumbles, not able to keep the nervousness off his voice. “The man sure likes his privacy, huh?”

The answer he didn't expect doesn't come and so he tries to find comfort in the fact that Deacon could have killed him on multiple occasions already but refused, so why should he do it now? So far away from civilization. All alone, where surely no one could hear Scud screaming, like a real psychotic killer.

Yeah, why should he?

After what felt like hours and a zigzag drive up a rather steep mountain way which has Scud's empty stomach do flip-flops, a house finally comes in sight. Or more like a castle. Or a manor? Maybe both. Definitely old, Scud decides as he looks over the uneven stone walls, made of bricks that are partly covered in rambler roses and ivy. Though the way they drive up looks new, as well as the, seemingly freshly cut, hedge blocking their view to what must be the garden.

Where Deacon lacks the cinematic romanticism of a vampire, this guy has taken all those suckhead movies a little too serious.

They park right in front of the entrance. Alienated, Scud steps out of the car, almost tripping as he climbs the stairs to a wide wooden door, always one step behind Deacon. Not out of respect, more out of fear something might jump him out of the dark.

It's just when they reach the top step that Deacon turns to him. They haven't shared a single word on the ride, not like Scud ever expected his master's mood to be stable once, but the look he gives him now is even worse than the tensed silence in the car.

“Listen”, Deacon says and he pins Scud right in place with a single look. “You don't speak, you don't stare at him, you don't do anything that might embarrass me in any way because if you do I promise to hurt you in ways which are far out of your imagination. Understood?”

“Then why did you take me with you in the first place?” Scud croaks, barely holding in the miserable keen stuck in his throat.

Deacon opens his mouth to answer, closes it again and only shakes his head in silent dispraise. He tugs at his black suit, pulling it into place rather harshly and turns to the door. Scud tries to swallow down the rising nausea and takes a deep breath of the fresh night air. Just in case this might be his last one.

The sound of a door bell, so loud it rings through his body, breaks the nightly silence. Just for a moment though before the door opens and the figure of a woman appears. Scud is sure this is not the friend Deacon talked about but he still bows his head a little.

He dares to glance up at her, catching a warm smile that pulls a pair of painted lips apart. Blood red, as Scud automatically thinks.

“Hello”, she says, her voice dark and calm. “Deacon, it's nice to see you.”

She stretches one hand out to him. When Deacon carefully accepts it she puts her other hand right over his, squeezing it lightly. Scud notices the color of her skin and how it almost shines brightly against that of Deacon.

She's human.

“And who is your companion?”

Her eyes land on him and her smile lives on just like that. Scud avoids her look, and he can't but feel bad for it.

“This is Scud. May we come in?”

“Of course”, the woman says. Her tone has lit in curiosity.

She steps aside to make place for them and as Scud walks past her he notices not only the dark dress covering her form but also the glyph right over her heart. His own makes an excited jumps when the door closes behind them.

“I will go and find Alistair. He surely is still in his study room.”

With that she walks off, her long dress making no sound despite the long strides she takes. Deacon watches her, but keeps silent.

They stand in a wide hall, the ceiling so high Scud has to crane his neck a little to see the chandelier hanging from it. Now he really feels like he stumbled into some old horror movie. He glances around for any hunchbacked butler, but finds none.

His paranoid train of thoughts is abruptly stopped when the sound of approaching steps fills the hall. His eyes land on a man, steadily walking towards them. Scud has no doubt this is the friend. The man looks old, way older than Deacon, maybe in his late Forties or early Fifties. He too is dressed in a dark suit, but fills it out better than Deacon. The hand he reaches out for the other man is large and looks like he could crush Scud's skull with a single squeeze.

“Deacon”, the man named Alistair says and looks at Scud's master with a stern expression, green eyes giving only the faintest hint of emotion away.

“Alistair”, Deacon replies in almost the same tone and accepts the hand with more confidence this time. “Thank you for inviting me.”

“It's been a long time. I'm glad you called.”

The moment of them shaking hands and staring at each other unblinking feels excruciatingly long and Scud balances from one foot onto the other, feeling his neck strain a little as he keeps his head bowed. He doesn't even mind being told not to look too long, this seems like a very intimate moment between the two vampires. It's not like he would care much.

“And this is your companion?”

Scud resists the urge to flinch away when Alistair steps in front of him. He stares at the hands which are able to lift his imagination to higher levels and prays for them to stay in right that place.

“Pet”, Deacon corrects him, his tone having taken a sharp note. “He is my pet. His name is Scud. No sense to wonder about it.”

Alistair hums, a noise that seems to come out of the depths of his broad chest and finally steps away again.

“So you have accepted Dragonetti's conditions?”

“I have accepted no one's conditions.”

“As per usual.”

“Why don't we go have a seat in the dining room? The meal should be ready by now.” The woman's voice interrupts the short slugfest, strengthening Scud's decision that she is most likeable of everyone else in this room.

The whole situation seems unreal to him, more so when they sit down at a long wooden table, Alistair at the head, the woman to his right, Deacon and him to sit at his left. It almost feels like one of those awkward dinners where the family is forced to come together, only to realize there is nothing to talk about. Scud dares a quick look at the round. Alistair is looking at none of them, just staring straight ahead. Much like Deacon who maltreats the table's surface with looks as if to burn it. The woman who's name hasn't fallen yet catches Scud's look, smiles and tilts her head a little. A strand of ebony hair frees itself from behind her ear. In the next moment a hand is there to brush it back. Alistair curls the strand around his finger for a second before gently tugging it back in place. The woman's attention turns to him and her smile even brightens.

Confused Scud follows Deacon's manner and stares at the smooth surface of the table.

Instead of the hunchbacked butler he had waited for a man and a woman enter the wide room. Their clothes give their position as servants away. Scud knows those outfits, the maids in Anton's home wore almost the same. Even though his former master's servants didn't look as relaxed as those two. It wasn't unusual that most of them ended up as food, just like the pets and even some familiars. One time Scud watched one of them try to run. They caught her and the large stain that had followed and soaked into the carpet was then cleaned by her colleagues. After that none of them ever again tried to run.

He is ripped out of his thoughts when a simple white plate is placed in front of him. For a moment he stares at the deep red liquid swimming before his eyes, then his head catches up and his stomach clenches painfully.

“That's tomato soup.”

The woman is directly looking at him. She must have sensed his unease.

“Do you like tomato soup? I just thought it would be nice if our meals matched as much as possible.”

After her words his look is all but dragged towards the other plates. The filling of Deacon's plate is just as red as his, though the smell, as faint as it may be, tells it's no kind of soup at all.

“I...”, Scud starts, “...I feel sick.”

In the time in which Deacon whirls around to him, his eyes throwing silent maledictions, Alistair nodded to the woman. Scud stares at Deacon, trying to somehow apologize before his gaze again lands on the plate. He feels bile jump up his throat and presses the back of his hand to his mouth.

A pair of hands is gently but firmly grabbing his upper arms, guiding him off his seat and out of the room. Away from the picture, away from the smell.

He just stumbles over the oriental looking carpet, through a hall lit by smaller chandeliers until, finally, they reach a bright, white room. Scud grabs the sink as soon as it is in reach, hanging his head. The sound of water fills his ears and then there's a wet cloth wiping over his forehead in careful movements.

“I'm sorry”, the woman says. “When Deacon said he would bring someone else I didn't expect... I thought he would bring one of his own kind.”

“A vampire?” Scud mutters, the word feeling weird on his tongue. He has his eyes still closed, breathing through his mouth and focusing on the cool feeling the water leaves on his skin.

“Yes, a vampire.”

Scud winces, grabbing the sink tighter until his fingers hurt from the pressure.

“Who are you?” he croaks and can't bring himself to be ashamed as his voice slips higher. Not in fear, not exactly, just in utter confusion.

This is all too much.

“My name is Moira. Alistair is my... let's call it partner. I used to be his pet, but he began to see more in me. Sadly, I don't know that much about his and Deacon's relationship. They have a certain history.”

“Is he Deacon's creator?” Scud whispers. Before his closed eyes the world begins to spin.

“No”, Moira says calmly. “But he took care of him.”

The cloth disappears from his skin, only to return soaked with fresh, cold water. Scud grabs Moira's wrist, wincing when the water catches in his lashes. She hands him the cloth silently so he can press it against his lips.

“I am truly sorry”, she says lowly. With a hand she brushes over his tousled hair. Scud doesn't ask what for.

 

**xXxXx**

 

Deacon stares after them, Moira and Scud, as they hurry away from the scene. He is enraged, has every right to. After everything he has done for this pathetic little human he doesn't manage to not completely screw this one night. He asked for one thing and Scud had to mess it up. Stubbornly, he ignores the voice in the back of his head that says that, maybe, Scud just hadn't been ready for this yet.

“I'm sorry”, he says, not facing Alistair because he doesn't want him to see how little control Deacon has left. “That pet is no good. I should have known he would ruin it.”

Alistair keeps silent for a while. Deacon feels the eyes on his back and so he turns around, swallowing the anger down for the moment.

For the moment.

“When you called, earlier this night”, Alistair starts, eyes on the plate before him but gaze visibly lost, “and said we should talk, came all the way up here and accepted Moira's presence, I thought it wasn't you. To be absolutely honest, I believed to never hear or see you again. So, imagine my surprise. But not only that, you have a pet. You may refuse to say that you accommodated to Dragonetti's... manners, but that's what it is in the end. Or perhaps not? Deacon, if you want to talk and actually say something with meaning – now would be the best time.”

He doesn't look at him while talking and something inside of Deacon stings at this gesture of belittlement. Like he isn't even worthy the disappointed looks.

“The best time?” he echoes, searching Alistair's face. “The best time is long over. The best time would have been before I took that pet. Before you began to develop a liking for that human woman. The best time would have been before you've written me off for the companions I chose or the decisions I made. It would have been the best time if you hadn't left me.”

“As far as I remember it was you who chose to revive his puberty and act like a spoiled brat, completely ignoring the rules which were made to protect us and pushing away everyone who didn't agree with you, including me.”

When Alistair looks up and watches him through sharp, green eyes, face darkened by an everlasting frown, Deacon shivers. He quickly brushes it off, hiding his body's reaction by straightening his suit.

“I shouldn't have come”, he mumbles grimly and is about to stand up.

“Sit, Deacon”, Alistair says. It's not a growl, doesn't even sound any bit of angry, but it's a tone Deacon knows just too well and which always managed to put him back in his place.

Almost reflexively he drops back onto his seat, gaze lowered in both shame and ire.

Alistair huffs, leaning back in his chair and looking over the man to his left. “When I found you, on the edge to insanity, driven mad by hunger and the wrath every newborn carries, I could have killed you. In that night I could have ended your pity with a flick of my wrist and moved on, like nothing happened. You could have been yet another by his creator abandoned newborn, not able to cope with the weight of the present you were made. You could have been just another nameless halfbreed, it's ashes left to sink into the mud, like you never existed. But... I didn't. I pulled you out of that hole you fell into, brushed the dirt off your face and fed you. I showed you how to use your new gained powers, how to hunt, how to erase your traces and how to fully grasp the meaning of immortality – what it truly means to be _immortal_. Or so I thought. But then you developed this hate and this need to rebel... and it was like you fell right back into that hole. But this time you wouldn't let me pull you out, instead you pushed me away. You never cared to explain to me why that was and I will admit that I was disappointed and still too caught up in grief to come after you – but now you are here. All I do is wonder why, Deacon. Why? After all this time. Why are you here now?”

His hands are hidden in his lap. One of the things Deacon always hated about Alistair was how he would never raise his voice, never lose that relaxed expression of his like everything goes just like he planned. Deacon never managed to maintain that much control over himself and Alistair always let him knew how disappointed he was about this.

Even now he is calm, every word that comes out of his mouth sounding absolutely sure and strengthened in it's meaning and purpose. He glances up to his self-appointed mentor. The shame that tightens his chest is familiar and just as unpleasant as it had been then.

“It wasn't right”, he says sharply, though quieter than intended. “All this time humans were nothing but cattle for us. They were food, blood bags on legs. You told me... you said we were superior, but then, all of a sudden, you changed your mind and followed every of Dragonetti's ass-climbing words about peace and how we have to live in compact with the humans. With cattle! And I didn't understand, see, I wasn't rebelling or anything – I just didn't understand and it made me fucking angry, okay? You never bothered to explain things to me, it was always the way it had to be, the way someone chose was the best for us and then we all had to live by that. So, no, Alistair, it wasn't me who abandoned you – you abandoned me!”

By the end of his speech his voice fills the whole room, words echoing off the walls but quickly getting lost in the wide space. His hands are shaking and he forms tight fists, not even flinching when sharp nails bury into his flesh.

Both men stare at the table, not able to stand the look in the eyes of one another.

“I have never been human”, Alistair mumbles slowly. “I have never seen a sunrise or felt her beams on my skin. My heart never lived, my body was always cold. But I always knew about the preciousness of life, not only for me, but also for them. I never told you the humans were cattle and I won't take the blame for your wrath towards them. But I do take the blame for leaving you angry and lost when I should have been at your side.”

“What does it change now?” Deacon mumbles.

“The reason why you're here, that's what it could change.”

 

**xXxXx**

 

They sit in silence for a while now. Scud still feels the nausea coming in waves, always taking him back when he thinks his legs are able to carry him again. Before his knees gave in Moira took him by the hand and sat him down on the edge of the large tub. When Scud gave it an investigating look he decided that it's way bigger than that of Deacon and wondered if Moira ever spent a night in it, clinging to the man who marked her, forced her into this situation until he chose to take care of her.

“So, you're a couple, or what?” he asks.

“By social standards, yes”, Moira answers. “But it was a long process, and a surprising one.”

“How did he find you?”

“Alistair didn't exactly find me. Before him I had several other masters. I was practically born into slavery as my mother was caught while she was pregnant. It's a wonder they didn't kill her, or me, for that matter. Instead I was passed from vampire to vampire for many years. I think it was spring when he took me with him, couldn't have been older than twenty maybe. Weird, I remember the day when I wanted to run but not the night when he took me. But I do remember how he changed. Alistair has never been cruel to me, just very distant. Until that turned into something else...”

“How?”

Moira throws him a quick glance, a smile that's lost in old memories dancing around her lips.

“Oh, I don't know. He never let me see much of what was going on in him. But I guess he was lonely and not quiet ready to give up the safety of that loneliness. What you have to know is that Alistair is not like those vampires you may have encountered. He belongs to a way older generation and even if it may sound cheesy but he has a different standard of values. All those turned city vampires, they are brutal, inexperienced. They were thrown into a world already dominated by violence and crime... they know no other way.”

Scud knows exactly what way Moira means, but none of them says it out loud. Absently, Scud rubs over the scars on his stomach, having every one of them remembered by now and how they press against his fingertips, the feeling still alienating. Like they don't belong to him. But they do.

“Do you love him? Alistair, I mean.”

“Love is such a simple word to describe what I feel for this man. Gratitude, respect, the feeling of not being alone – that comes way closer to it.”

She doesn't say it, doesn't ask the question, but Scud knows what lingers on her tongue.

“Deacon is not like Alistair”, he says slowly and his voice almost breaks with tiredness.

 

**xXxXx**

 

He once heard if people held something to themselves for a long time the words would just sputter out of them like a verbal fountain when they couldn't take it anymore.

This night Deacon learned this sadly doesn't fit him.

Every word, every sentence that is supposed to explain his situation and all that mess is a fight. With each information his own pride rages up to keep him from spilling any more than this. The whole time, while he tells Alistair what happened from the night he made the deal with Anton until the night he saw that video tape of Scud, there is a voice inside of his head that tells him to stop, to quit acting so helpless and weak. But Alistair's looks are encouraging, for the first time in many years and that is enough to keep Deacon going.

When he ends the silence feels weird. Deacon never thought he could be this nervous about someone's response to what he said. He can almost feel his heart flutter, a memory he thought to have lost long ago.

“I don't know what to do”, he mutters defeated. “It's all turned into some big blurry mess and I don't know what to do.”

He feels tired, not just in a physical way. The feeling of having spent every last drop of energy goes far deeper than the muscles and the bones. He can't even bring himself to be angry at himself for being tired and showing it.

“Say something”, he whispers, voice a little rough from the endless talking.

Alistair draws a hand through his slicked back hair, forehead falling into thoughtful wrinkles.

“Anton MacHorvath is a soulless, dishonorable, traitorous man who is only looking for his own advantage. He has no heart and that is what makes him dangerous, Deacon. That is what makes us all weak, the heart that is. But it's also what encourages us to make certain decisions. If I had been like Anton I would have let you rot in that hole. But I'm not, I'm not cruel and that was your luck. Just like it was the human's luck that you didn't let him die.”

“That had nothing to do with heart”, Deacon mutters, leaning his elbows on the table to press his palms to the eyes. “I took him because he came in handy in that situation.”

“Yes, maybe in that situation he did”, Alistair says, leaving it at that.

They share another quiet moment.

“He tickles you”, the older man mumbles, “he tries to get a reaction from you, something careless so he can trip and get you. So that is what you shouldn't do.”

“But I can't just ignore it”, Deacon snarls and remembers Mercury's annoyance about the topic. If she had felt the same belittlement as he did with Alistair?

“As you know, I have never been part of this business of yours. Shady clubs, public human meals, familiars who crawled out of the darkest corners this world has to offer... but I will try and see what I can do. Don't put your companions for this on the line, Deacon, I know what they mean to you. Especially this girl who really is just... but we had this conversation already. Don't let it flood your head, things will turn out fine for you.”

“What about Scud?”

The question is out before he could think about it. Deacon takes the hands off his face and searches that of his mentor.

“That depends on what he means to you”, Alistair admits. “What does he mean to you?”

Deacon snorts, shrugs and leans back on his seat, as if to escape the question.

“He is a human, he means nothing. When all of this is over I will just... get rid of him, somehow. That's the only thing to do.”

“You know, Deacon, it doesn't have to be like this. We don't have to hate the humans, just like they wouldn't have to hate us. I thought you might understand this even better than me, what with your former life, because I saw you and more than your face I saw the back of your head. You always turned around, you always looked back. But then you stopped.”

“There is no sense in looking after the past.”

“No, not looking after it... but sometimes it can be an anchor and remind us of what we used to be and how things were. The past isn't always bad, Deacon. Sometimes it helps us to see present things more clearly.”

 

**xXxXx**

 

They still stand in the doorway when Deacon starts the car and they slowly roll down the way. Scud looks at Moira through the front window. When she catches his gaze she lifts her arm to wave him goodbye, her smile faltering just for a moment. But that's when they take a turn and the couple disappears out of his sight, replaced by the view of the road ahead of them.

Scud can tell that it hasn't been an easy night for neither of them. Deacon holds the steering wheel in a tight grip, not having bothered with looking at him since he left the dinner with Moira earlier.

“I'm sorry”, he mumbles, daring to glance at Deacon's stony profile. “I really am.”

He is met with icy silence, something Scud thought to prefer over the usual audible outbursts of the man. But as it shows, he doesn't.

With a small sigh he leans his head back against the window, feeling the cold of the window crawl over his skin and his own hot breath dampening the glass. As a kid he had liked to draw pictures onto the stained windows, until his father told him not to because it would leave dirty fingerprints.

They still have some hours left until sunrise but the city is as lively as always. Scud watches a group of young women pass by as they wait at a traffic light. One of them is wearing a tiara with an improvised looking bridal veil hanging down her back. A stag party. Scud had never been invited to one of those, too loosely his friendships to share such an event with someone like him.

He follows them as they stumble down the street, laughing loudly and singing incoherent drinking songs.

When the hand lands on his thigh he flinches just barely. It feels strange there, though it's not grasping. It's just lightly resting, unmoving and almost shy looking.

He turns to Deacon but he is staring straight ahead. Scud doesn't brush the hand off until the lights turn green and Deacon grabs the steering wheel again.

It's the closest he gets to an “It's okay” as possible.

The rest of the drive is shared in familiar silence, but now it feels like someone took all that tension out. Scud tries to enjoy the last minutes until they are back in the apartment. The building comes far too quickly into sight and Deacon could slow down a bit, he wouldn't block anyone here, but Scud doesn't dare to ask. Instead he closes his eyes when they enter the parking garage and only opens them again when the car comes to a halt.

They step out of the car, take the elevator upstairs and walk through the short white corridor. Deacon unlocks the door and holds it open as Scud enters. As he steps into the apartment Scud can't but wonder when he will be able to leave it again. If that will ever be the case.

“Wanna smoke?”

He nods and follows Deacon out on the balcony. He accepts the cigarette, takes the lighter from his hands and counts the still illuminated windows of the building opposite of them. This time he counts twelve.

When he releases his eyes again, Deacon is looking at him. Scud frowns.

“What?” he asks curiously.

But he only shakes his head. “Nothing. Let's get inside.”

As Deacon closes the door Scud stretches, lifting both arms high above his head and listens to the crack of his bones, how all of that tension that has built up during the night seems to flood from his muscles.

“I guess I, uhm, gonna crash now. Pretty tired”, he says, making some slow steps into the direction of the bedrooms. “But, uh, thank you, for the whole night. It was... nice.”

Deacon nods, but keeps his body turned towards the glass doors, hands still on the handle. Scud chews on the inside of his cheek. Guess there's no sense in asking if he's mad. But the man remaining completely silent does worry him since Deacon is not exactly the person who would keep his mouth shut to punish Scud. The last time he did that it didn't last long and the whole thing ended with Scud on his knees and an awkward night after. Maybe it's for the better to not poke him and just enjoy the silent treatment, as much as possible.

With that as a final conclusion Scud retreats to his bedroom, closing the door behind him very carefully.

As he lays on the bed he hears the shutters glide down. They spent half the night driving around and Scud does feel tired, but sleep is something he waits for without success. There is no clock in the room, the only clock in the whole apartment is the one in the kitchen, still Scud is sure it's early morning already. As he tosses around, stuffing the pillow frustratedly and still finding no comforting position, his thoughts begin to wander. Back to Moira and Alistair, what the woman told him and how absolutely content she had seemed to be with her situation. Like she had an actual life there. With that old, emotionally disabled suckhead who climbed out of God knows what graveyard.

He thinks about what Moira said, that Alistair isn't Deacon's creator but that he took care of him, and how that would mean the old bastard had some kind of soft spot containing maybe something like sympathy.

A vampire with a heart. The thought pulls a joyless laugh from his lips.

His heart thrums in rhythm to the music which sinks through the door separating him from the rest of the apartment. Scud searches his memory for the song, but can't seem to remember it. Still, it's kind of familiar...

He frowns and sits upright in his bed. He didn't notice the music until now.

On bare feet he tips through the room, carefully opening the door and peeking out into the living room. The music gets louder as he follows a soft voice between the glass walls. The sound echoes off the smooth surfaces and seems to come from every direction, a little scratchy and uneven, like it's a really old song.

Deacon has his back to him when Scud finds him. He's standing in front of a small table and on it something he can only guess to be a record player.

“Didn't know you had one of those”, he mumbles, leaning against the wall to his left.

Deacon throws him a quick glance before facing the endlessly turning record again. “Yeah, I forgot about it. But when you had this book in your hand I remembered. Not that much of a friend of music anyway, not this kind at least.”

“Billie Holiday, hm?” Scud asks and steps a little closer, glancing at the cover balancing on the edge of the small table. “That's something I didn't expect...”

About this he is completely honest and not afraid to show. The other man could not take it as an insult that Scud didn't expect him to be a friend of old music. In Scud's eyes his master had always seemed to enjoy the modern lifestyle.

He also didn't expect him to turn around and ask: “Have you ever danced?”.

Scud snorts and buries his hands in the pockets of his jeans, suddenly feeling a little misplaced in his worn t-shirt between the books and the fine glass and the voice of an already dead woman.

“No”, he replies, hesitantly and looks anywhere but Deacon's direction. “Do I look like it?”

“If I went by your looks I'd say you couldn't even read”, Deacon snaps, but doesn't lose the small smile playing around his mouth. “But you surprised me there, so why not give it a try?”

“What, with you?”

“No, with the broom. Come on.”

For a moment he stares at the hand stretched out to him, before taking it, slowly, like Deacon could pull it away in the last second and go “Just kidding”, leaving him looking like a complete idiot. But he doesn't and tugs at Scud's arm until both of them stand in the middle of the small place. Feeling awfully awkward, he lets his arms and hands be arranged by the man, one on the right shoulder, the other lightly resting in Deacon's own hand.

“Now this is really easy--”

“That's what you say.”

“--You just move in rhythm to the music, slowly and without any hast. Just let it guide you. See, like that. It's not that hard, right? Just listen to the music, to that beautiful voice of Miss Holiday – who was really lovely, by the way.”

“You met her?”

“I'm not the philistine you seem to think I am.”

“To be honest, I don't think that much of you at all”, Scud mutters, looking at his feet and watching not to step on anyone else's, just as he watches to keep a certain distance to the other body. “Man, I feel stupid...”

Deacon huffs, just barely, but pulls him a little closer. “That's because you don't let yourself be guided. You're worse than Mercury, she can't give away control either.”

'Thanks for comparing me with that psychotic bitch', Scud silently snaps and holds his breath when Deacon bumps into him, having not followed the other man's movements and not taken that step back that might have saved him from the mini heart attack he just received.

“You dance often?” he asks, trying to cover his fastened heartbeat.

“Not really”, Deacon mumbles and grips his hand a little tighter. “The time for dancing is over. Should have done it more often when the music was still made for it, but back then it was just a tactic to seduce prey – and I can tell you they did a better job than you because you're as tense as a buck about to be ripped by lions.”

“Well, hello?” Scud snaps and tugs his hand out of that of Deacon. “I told you I never danced and that I feel stupid. It's just not my thing, okay?”

“Dancing's everybody's thing”, Deacon says lowly and grabs his hand back, placing it on his other shoulder. “This better?”

Scud throws him a weak glare. It's not exactly better, but at least more relaxing for his arm. And he feels less opened up like this. He reaches around until his fingers hook into each other and just lets them hang there, feeling Deacon move slowly and rhythmically.

“Not as bad as you thought, hm?”

The words are almost rasped, their speaker seemingly lost in the moment. Scud shivers a little, but shakes it off and stares at his feet again. Deacon and him are pretty much the same height, so every time he bows his head the upper strands of his hair almost fall into the other man's face, tickling his lips and chin.

“Could be worse”, Scud admits slowly.

They stay like that for a moment, just moving to the soft sounds as the record turns relentlessly. Then Deacon clears his throat, breaking Scud's focus on his feet and having him lift his head.

“What happened at Alistair's home”, he begins, pauses and now it's his turn to avoid Scud's look, “that wasn't your fault and I should have understood that you weren't ready for that yet. After everything that happened, after all those things Anton did... I mean-- I'm sorry, okay? And I promise to not put you in a situation like that again, ever.”

He falls silent after that, fixating a point somewhere over Scud's shoulder. How long has he been thinking about this? When did he choose to apologize? Scud anxiously gnaws on his bottom lip. He knows he should say something but can't bring himself to open his mouth and do so. His heart probably already gave him away, the way it sped up and presses against the ribcage in a lively manner.

“None of that should have happened”, Deacon mumbles and when he looks at Scud, he can see that he really means it.

In any other situation he could have controlled it. In any other situation he would have been able to keep his head out of it and focus. But in the last month his world has been turned upside down, again, for the second time in not even a year and Scud knows it's normal to just  _snap_  at some point. People do it all the time and he did a good job at avoiding this until now. But at some point everyone does, and in the short breath he pulls himself closer to Deacon and leans in, Scud decides that no one could ever blame him.

He knows what a vampire's skin feels like, what the lips taste like and how they smell. They all felt, tasted and smelled the same. There was iron and earth, maybe a hint of perfume from the clothes, but overall they were just  _blank_. Nothing to distinguish them, nothing to separate them. They were all the same.

At first Deacon doesn't move at all. He stops to dance the second Scud's human warmth spreads over his own skin, sinks into his flesh and blood and awakes a memory deep inside of him. His entire body moves before his mind does, hands tightening their grip on slim hips and pulling the other body close, pressing him against his own from head to toe, like he wants to sink into him, into that warmth and that smell of life.

Deacon almost growls into the kiss, one hand grabbing a fistful of dark hair and holding Scud in place as he takes the human's mouth. There is no resistance when he licks over reddened lips which open up obediently. Scud almost melts into the way Deacon wants him, whole body going slack and soft. When he grabs the pet by his rear and presses their groins together Scud gasps and a small keen escapes his opened mouth.

“ _Please.”_

He tilts his head back and Deacon has his mouth on the throat within a second, lips pressing against the flushed skin.

“ _I'll do anything you want.”_

Another primal growl rises from his chest and the grip on his back tightens, fists grabbing his shirt and pulling him closer. He can hear Scud's heart thunder in his ears, the smell of iron in the blood underneath clouding his senses.

“ _...don't do this.”_

Suddenly the warmth disappears and Scud stares at him, strands of hair hanging in his eyes and a look of utter bewilderment on his face.

“What's wrong?” he asks, a little out of breath.

Deacon stares at the hands, his own hands, gripping the human's shoulders and keeping him at a distance. He swallows, the taste of Scud still on his lips.

“No”, he mumbles and shakes his head violently. “I can't do this, I shouldn't...”

“What? Can't do what?”

“This, I mean... Look, you don't have to do this, it's okay, I appreciate it, but--”

“You what?” Scud interrupts him and suddenly the look of confusion turns into that of anger. “ _You appreciate it_? Are you fucking kidding me?”

Deacon, still having his hands on Scud's shoulders, stares at him, completely uncomprehending.

“No, why would I? I mean it, Scud, you don't have to do this.”

“Oh, I know what I have to do, thank you very much. God bloody dammit, you are the most sissy-assed, ignorant little dipshit I've ever seen, man. You appreciate it? Are you... are you joking?! Have you ever, just for one tiny second, thought that, maybe, I wanted this? That I made this decision and wanted to do this? No, probably not, because in your head I'm so fucked up that I never have any plan of what the hell I'm doing. Right? Isn't it like that? Just because some cruel asshole thought it'd be okay to rape me and torture me, he managed to fuck up my brain and turn me into some kind of delusional psycho? That's what you think I am? Wow,  _fuck you_.”

With a harsh jerk he pulls himself free from the loose grip on his shoulders and takes a step back.

“You really thought I'd do this for you, didn't you? Yeah, because you're the arrogant, self-centered brat everyone's calling you! Know what? Forget it, I'm not in the mood,  _master_.”

For a second Deacon just stands and stares, trying to comprehend what just happened. But then his face darkens and a derogatory snort escapes him.

“Like that ever mattered”, he mutters.

Scud feels his expression slip and deep inside of him something just cracked. Before Deacon sees how much the words really hurt him, Scud turns around with a last annoyed “whatever”.

But he doesn't come far as a hand lands on his shoulder. He whirls around, trying to push Deacon away but losing his balance and thus having them both tumbling to the floor in a mess of limbs and groans. The world spins before his eyes and Scud moans, shaking his head to clear his vision. He remembers the weight on him and when Deacon manages to push himself up, Scud doesn't waste another second. His knuckles collide with the cool surface of Deacon's face, a small crack echoing through his ears. It's probably just due to the surprise, but Deacon falls off of him, hitting the ground just as hard as he did. In the next breath Scud is on him, straddling his waist and already lunging for another hit.

He wouldn't have if he hadn't forgotten the thing with the three times faster than humans.

All air gets pressed out of his lungs when his back crashes into the floor, even harder than before and then there is a hand around his throat, bending his neck back at an unnatural angle. Scud grabs the cold wrist, trying to loosen the grip, but failing miserably. He stares at Deacon above him, sees the long white fangs exposed in the dim light of the room and the primal rage distorting the man's face into something cruel and predatory. The bit of pride that manages to rise inside of his mind swallows down the keen that wants to dwell up. He probably couldn't make a sound anyway, not with the way Deacon cuts off all air.

It's just a split second, but the thought crosses his mind that this is it, this is his end and that it doesn't come from the man who wanted to kill him, but from the man who promised not to. He would laugh at the irony of the situation if he could, instead he feels a tear slip out of his eye's corner.

He watches Deacon's face soften, the fangs slipping back in and then there is pure terror in the man's eyes. The hand around his throat vanishes, leaving Scud coughing and rasping for air.

“Fuck, I'm so sorry”, Deacon whispers, holding both his hands up as if not knowing what to do with them. “Scud, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to--”

The rest gets cut off when Scud lunges up, grasps him by the front of his shirt and pulls him down into a forceful kiss. It's not gentle or shy, how first kisses should be, it's brutal and desperate and leaving him breathless again. His hands rake through Deacon's hair, pulling and shoving, trying to get even closer to him. A loud moan escapes him when Deacon rolls his hips into him, having lost the battle by now. None of them can't bring themselves to care about it.

Deacon hisses into the kisses, frantic words falling against his lips.

“You're killing me”, he whispers and reaches around to lift Scud's back off the ground, grinding into him.

Both of them know this could be done more gentle, more careful. But right now, this is the better way. Scud is the first to tear at Deacon's shirt, ripping at the fabric and managing to send one or two buttons flying off. It doesn't take long though until the other man gets it and starts to unbutton his shirt, pulling it off when he's only half done and casting it carelessly aside. Scud's hand are already on his belt, fingers still quick and sure even in a situation like this. Their lips only separate so Deacon can pull the already worn out shirt over Scud's head, but then they are right back and Scud grabs his face, blunt nails digging into the cool flesh.

He presses into him, Deacon does, hiding his face in the crook of Scud's neck and just breathes, takes in the scent and lets it cloud his senses yet again. It's only when the human begins to wriggle under him, hissing an impatient “Come on!” that he snaps back and hooks his fingers into the waistband of the loosely sitting jeans on Scud's hips. They slip over jutting hipbones, his nails scraping the small hollow in between and Deacon hears him gasp.

The taste of iron clings to his mouth, even though he hasn't hurt the fragile skin. Scud's lips are red and slightly pulsing, enough to awake the memory of a certain taste. Deacon hates clothes, this he decides now. With a last pull the jeans are off and it's only the fabric of his own slacks that separates him from the hot skin.

“Please”, Scud mumbles, biting Deacon's bottom lip and then releasing it again. “Just do it already.”

A button, a zipper and then he's frees, hard and leaking. A quick stroke, smearing a mixture of saliva and precome over his aching cock because somewhere between the kissing and the roaming hands Deacon remembers that he doesn't want to hurt Scud. Then he leans back in, smothering Scud's form with his own and catches the small yelp that escapes warm lips as he pushes in.

He had a lot of partner's before, but he never had a human, and there could never be a better first time than Scud.

The legs wrapped around his waist urge him on, just like the desperate keens and the nails digging into his upper arms. Scud has his neck craned back. He doesn't look at him, eyes pressed shut but mouth hanging open to release wave after wave of pleads and curses.

Deacon watches him as he buries his cock deeper and deeper into that heat, feeling every slip of skin on skin as he moves, driving back in and swallowing down his own words. He doesn't want to miss any of those needy noises for which he had waited so, so long.

With his arms placed on each side of Scud's head he cranes his neck to kiss that of the human. He won't bite him, that's out of question, the feeling of a living heart thundering against his lips already enough of a satisfaction.

When Scud starts to mumble his name, the same sound falling from his lips over and over like a mantra, Deacon gets his hands under the already bent back, lifts him off the cold stone floor and into his lap.

He sinks deeper in and both moan simultaneously, foreheads leaning against each other.

Scud feels good, he really does, but Deacon won't tell. He probably has been told too many times already.

They move together, slipping against one another's body. Scud has his hands back on Deacon's face, gently cupping it, still mumbling his name. It sounds so nice coming from him.

When he reaches between them and strokes Scud in rhythm to their movements, the hands disappear from his face, instead now there are nails scraping over his neck, digging in so hard it should hurt. But all of his focus is on Scud and when the human comes he follows shortly after, face pressed into the crook of Scud's neck and listening to his name being formed by red lips one last time.


	9. Chapter 9

Between his fourteenth and eighteenth year of living Scud had avoided to look into the mirror. It wasn't because of any visible harms, though he had a little scar across his chin from a fight with one of the watchdogs, or because he found himself too ugly to the sight.

It was because he saw her in his face.

He saw her in the blue of his eyes, the way his brows furrowed and how his lips almost automatically pulled together when in thought. She seemed to come alive again when he studied his own tired features, almost as gray as the walls around him. Like a silent reminder that he was truly and honestly alone, the only thing to keep her in this world his body and memories.

When the nurse of his ward said he would look more like her every day, he had punched the poor woman. She was sent home with a shock and Scud fixed to his bed for the rest of the night.

Back then, he had tried to forget her. And for this Scud still hates himself.

It's more difficult for him to have someone touch his face, feel those features of his mother, than anything else. The first time Deacon let his fingers carefully feel over the bumpy scars on his stomach it was uncomfortable, a new sensation, but those scars weren't as much a part of him as his lips or his cheeks. It felt distant and distant was okay. But when he traced the outer line of his brows, gently flattening the wrinkle in between with a thumb, there had been nothing more tempting than the sight of the opened door.

Despite his public hate for everything human, Deacon is fairly interested in Scud's humanity. It feels like cheating on a part of himself with letting this stranger explore parts of his body Scud had avoided to feel himself for so long.

Most of the time, he endures it. Really endures it because it's only months of self-training that keep him from batting those restless hands away. Then there are days when he can't seem to care for it, for everything this meant to him. Or had meant? This dream-like state, not sure whether he's sleeping or awake, has followed him ever since, almost haunted him at times. It got in handy during long nights to blend out the happenings, but there were situations where it got him in trouble more than anything.

Every time he seems to drift off, putting up that wall to block out her memory, the hands are back, their touch so gentle it repulses Scud.

Some nights, he wonders whether he really doesn't care about it all anymore, or just suppresses it, together with everything else. Including her.

**xXxXx**

They have this silent agreement, a wordless deal to not spill a breath over _this_. About what they have, or not have. Depending on the viewing angle.

But what they did agree on is a reoccurring of, well, _this_.

A little awkward at first, to put it smoothly, and less hurting for Deacon's pride. Despite his long, long experience he encounters moments which leave him a little bewildered and not sure of what to do. Like the one time when all of a sudden a switch seemed to go off in Scud's brain and he just stopped moving, lying there next to him and not responding to any touch or word. At a loss of ideas, Deacon decided to just tug the human under a blanket and wait for him to come back from whatever place he momentarily was. Or the time when he called the boy a dirty whore, out of sheer excitement and arousal, and suddenly had a shaking, sobbing picture of misery in his lap. Those were the nights that didn't really go well.

But there were others too, of course. This was him, Deacon Frost, after all.

The greatest achievement so far was when Scud actually showed a reaction that was not acted but completely spontaneous.

A long, drawn out “Fuuuck...” when he slid his fingers deeper inside the warm body, curling them just a tiny bit, but enough to have the human asking for more. Not literally, but they don't need much words to communicate anyway.

If Deacon is honest with himself, and he mostly was, this isn't the way he usually handles things. Even when a certain level of finesse is required, he tries to speed things up, get them over with before he loses interest. Which happens often, and quickly on top, especially when they take too long. Up to now it has always worked out, though, so no worries there. But with Scud – and he's often somewhat sulking at the thought – everything is so much different. A part of his brain tells him the rather unpleasant truth about this: he got pussy-whipped by a mentally unstable human. The other part is just happy about every tiny achievement, not even bothering to present him a satisfying explanation as to why that is. And every time Deacon tries to think of a reason himself, he is met with a concrete mental block that gives him headaches, if anything.

So, instead of bending the human over and do as he _would normally_ please, he asks for permission first. Kind of, in his own way. Deacon had never and will never have to ask for sex like someone who was not theoretically in the position to just do as he likes, this he tells himself, but there are certain reactions to his presence which are just as good as a loud and audible “Fuck off”. Though Deacon is fairly sure the boy wouldn't dare to say that out loud, not yet at least. He learned to read the signals, the moment when the light in those eyes goes out or when the movements become cut-off, almost robotic. It's those nights when he spends his time at the other end of the room.

It had been going well for the past days. But as always, it couldn't keep on going well forever.

He wakes to the usual darkness, her silent embrace soothing for his mind. Darkness doesn't mean to him what it means to humans. It's not the black that threatens to swallow the sight, drowning them in a wave of vulnerability. This is Deacon's light, his time, his natural environment. He learned to love it, her, and the peace her shadows offer. So when there is a throaty shriek to his right, it takes him a moment to figure out the why of the situation. It is quickly found, moving, fidgeting, until a loud thud echoes through the small space of the improvised coffin and a moan that sounds a lot like a concussion.

Before the boy can do any more harm, to himself and Deacon's furniture, the top glides up and Deacon reaches for his phone with the one hand, with the other steadying Scud as the human clutches a growing bump on his head.

He can't remember calling his medic this often, but as always, despite all maledictions, his door bell rings shortly after, pressed by a perfectly manicured finger whose owner still has to stand on her toes, especially when the height-adding heels are missing.

No word is shared on their way over to the couch where Scud sits with a blanket wrapped around his lean form. Deacon had offered a cooled blood bag to sooth the pain of the impact which Scud had, expectantly, refused.

He shoots the small woman a quick smile before his head is roughly pulled to the side for examination.

“Have I ever told you the downside of this job?” she asks, taking out a tiny flashlight and waving it on front of the boy's eyes.

“A side of me always wants to know why. Why there is half a body hanging from a ceiling fan or how this woman fell through a seemingly shut drain to break her ankle. Or where those bruises come from, those bumps and scratches in places where the sun doesn't shine. But the other side, which is luckily the more dominant one, says to not bother, to keep things the way they are. Not-talked-about. Untouched, figuratively.”

Seemingly satisfied, she puts the little flashlight aside and gives them a long look over her frameless glasses.

“But I still wonder”, she ends her short narration.

“Understandable”, Deacon comments, his eyes almost automatically gliding over to Scud, who just shrugs, the blanket around his shoulders making a little rustling sound.

“I hit my head on the coffin”, he says slowly. “Couldn't see much in the dark. Not a suckhead, y'know.”

There seem to still be some flaws in their silent communication.

“Out”, Missouri commands and her tone let there no doubt be.

Almost apologetic silently Scud sidles away from the scene, the blanket draping over the floor, until that sound too is out of the two participants' reach.

Deacon is not scared of Missouri, there is no reason to be, and she is still just a human. But sometimes he could swear those gray eyes hold more soullessness than his own.

“Interesting turn of events”, she begins, “not so much.”

“There's an explanation and if I bothered to give you one, I would”, Deacon sneers, shoving his hands into the pockets of his slacks.

“Believe me, you do bother.”

For a moment they regard each other with flaming looks, a “Why the hell would you care?” dancing on Deacon's tongue. But then he decides to go along with it. If the woman insists.

“Scud is mine now”, he says lowly, the words tripping from his lips easier than he thought.

Missouri nods.

“You screwed him.”

“Did not! Well, I did, but surely not in the way your twisted mind imagines. It was all... consensually, as you would put it.”

“Consensually?” Missouri repeats, the fake disbelief in her voice on the edge to sarcasm. “Yes, absolutely. Now, I almost worried there. Let's switch to a more pleasant topic, shall we? Just yesterday I read an article about this perky thing... have you ever heard of the Stockholm Syndrome?”

“It's not like that!” Deacon busts and takes a defiant step into the woman's direction. Missouri doesn't even bother to stand, looking up at him, the purse which always contains a needle of garlic just in reach. “This isn't some sick mind game I forced him to. He came at me, believe it or not.”

“Not”, she hisses. “Really, how stupid can one be? You even believe yourself, don't you? From your point of view, everything's just perfect, finally no more resistance, you don't have to bother kicking him over the place anymore. No more ruined suits, hm?”

“Watch your mouth”, Deacon snaps and feels the flesh around his canines tingle in anticipation.

“Watch your back”, Missouri retorts, now rising to her feet. It doesn't make much of a difference. “Because this cozy, domestic thing won't turn out well for you. You may have forgotten _the situation_ over your nightly feeling up, but I'm at the heart of the scene and I'm hearing things. And this you can believe me, they don't sound so pretty.”

She makes a small pause. “I thought to see a change in you, Deacon – but I just discovered more of you, and that's never a good thing.”

“You think I'm like him?” Deacon clenches between his teeth, barely suppressed anger shaking his form. “It's difference, he endures no harm. I promise you, Missouri!”

Why he feels the need to convince her, this human woman, of his innocence, or what it may be that comes close to it, steps out of his reach of understanding. He is instead faced with a despair that hasn't gotten him this badly since Alistair doubted him. Deacon may be a vampire, cruel of nature and not the most charming companion at times, but he's not a liar.

“I shouldn't even bother to explain to you, or try to, because I'm a little over my head here too, but I don't want him hurt. And I can't endure the thought of all of this happening to him again. He should have it good, and this I'm trying to accomplish to the farthest point possible by my hands.”

The silence that follows his confession is just pushing the anger bubbling under his surface.

“So?” he snaps yet again.

“So what?” Missouri mutters, suddenly a shadow hanging over her features. “What do you expect of me? I've spent more than half my life in this business. People of your kind have been promising me all kind of things, you're not the first to experience this situation. They all explained it so well, so convincing I thought, every time, that maybe things really do change, turn to the better. Happy endings. But then I was the one to scrape away the remains, literally. I'm far beyond believing, Frost. Shouldn't have tried this at all.”

With a sigh that seems to come from the depths of her chest, she leans down, closing her purse and hanging the medical bag around her bony shoulders. Deacon shudders, the feeling of defeat also overcoming him.

“Just make this one promise, and promise to keep it: if you do it, do it quickly and don't make such a mess. Okay? My back isn't getting any younger.”

**xXxXx**

Scud hears the door close again, waiting for the sound of approaching steps. It doesn't come for a long time, but when it does, he can hear the change before he sees it.

“Probably shouldn't have mentioned that?” he mumbles, cracking a weak smile when Deacon appears in the door frame. The other man looks at him with an unreadable expression. Not the “I will break your neck and you won't see it coming” kind of unreadable, but just unreadable. Like a white, blank page, empty of things to say. “Shall I make up for it?”

He stands, lazily dropping the blanket to the floor where it lands in a formless, wrinkled mess. The air is cold against his bare skin, Deacon doesn't bother for heaters for obvious reasons.

By now Scud has figured out that he likes to have his neck kissed, gently sucked, though he sometimes wonders about how much the man can really feel. The physiology of vampires has been something far out of his interest up to now. It's not hard to get a reaction out of him though, be it by memories of his human life, or out of real feelings. As Scud realized, Deacon is someone who likes to get to the point. This doesn't necessarily mean he skips foreplay every time, he's way too good at that. But often enough, for his reactions are quick and rushed, like a petrol drained puppet set on fire, the hot flames indulging the form in seconds.

He stops, frowning, when his own wandering hands get no respond.

“You okay?” he whispers, trying another experimental nibble, but yet again receiving nothing but cold silence.

The gentle push against his form is unexpected and rather surprised Scud follows the lead and takes a step back.

“I need some time to think”, he says suddenly. His usually smooth voice has taken a gravelly tone and Scud flinches just barely at that.

“Should I get out?”

Deacon shakes his head, bends to pick up the blanket and drapes it back around Scud's cooling body. His hands rest on the human's shoulder for a moment, before he shakes his head again. “No, get back to sleep. There are some things I need to do, but I'll be back at sunrise.”

“Well... okay”, Scud mumbles uneasily, hands almost automatically reaching out to pull the warming fabric tighter around his form.

He waits until Deacon has left the room before dropping back onto the bed. The previous warmth has left it completely, not just in a physical way.

**xXxXx**

The night has always been a part of Mercury's life, even before her death and rebirth.

Daytime... it just hasn't been her _thing_. She preferred the dark and the mysterious. Everything was more sensual during the night and the people more relaxed, like they could finally expose their true natures to the world without the revealing light of day to remind them of their filthy living. Mercury, though back then that wasn't what people called her, liked to watch the revellers go down a path she knew they would never return from. They wasted their lives like they wasted their money, in company of the wrong people and for the completely wrong things. Mercury knew of their destinies, those sad tragedies that were all the same in the end, and it gave her a feeling of superiority. It was the only thing in her own life that made her feel in control of things. And people were just so predictable, once you figured them out.

It had been this reason that attracted her to Deacon. She couldn't figure him out that easily. He stood against the masses, like a different kind of shadow. But it was easy to see that he belonged to this place just as much as she did, knowing about the other tragic souls accompanying them and having her little game taped sooner than she would have liked.

He was different. And that infuriated her! How dare come this stranger into her territory and make her lose her favorite game?

But it all changed when Deacon made this offer, the offer to lead her down a path that would bring her to the dendritic heart of night itself. Make her a part of it even.

How could she say no to that?

The memory makes her smile. Not a warm, loving smile – that's no exactly her style. It just reminds her of the life she was given, and how her previous one seemed so dull and wasted. Just like those other lives she had watched from her spot. Mercury isn't a watcher anymore, she is in the game now - and she never loses.

All of this goes through her head while her claws cut away the man's skin as if it's made of butter. His famous last words consist of an incoherent splutter and a gurgle that is followed by more blood gushing to the surface. Then it's over and his dead shell lies to her feet, draining her already dirtied boots in new blood.

“Waste of time”, she comments and kicks the hand that lays as if reaching out to her with a disgusted snarl. “I told you those familiars know nothing! MacHorvath wouldn't be that stupid. Last time I'll listen to some crap idea of yours.”

She turns to glare at Quinn who shrugs his shoulders.

“What are you bitching about? Deac told us to leave nothing untried, so that's what we do.”

“This isn't about some orders he gave us, this is about time! And we're running out of it”, she adds with an angry hiss. “The last useful source we had preferred to jump in front of a train than to let us lay a hand on him. It's a fucking wonder we got this one. You know what I think? He already knows about us and this guy was just bait to keep us occupied!”

It's not like Quinn is completely stupid. He is just as naïve as a newborn baby. Mercury hates to be paired up with him, a displeasure she never bothered to hide, for when it's not about physical strength Quinn has not much to offer. It sometimes even happens that he begins to squawk just when Mercury is about to get an idea, but losing it the instant his awry voice fills her head instead.

“Or”, he starts, a dumb grin starting to pull his thin lips apart, “you're just a paranoid bitch which hadn't gotten laid because... oh right, your boyfriend's shagging a walking blood bag now.”

“I will fucking rip you apart!”

Their short tussle is interrupted when the door to the basement opens with an announcing squeal. Both stop dead in their tracks, Mercury's hands still around Quinn's thick neck and his hand reaching for the knife at his thigh, a souvenir from a previous – slaughtered – familiar.

“Why am I not surprised by this picture?” Deacon asks wryly, slowly stepping down the crooked stair.

“She started it”, Quinn squawks in a child-like manner, as good as he can with his windpipe clutched by unforgiving hands.

“Fucker”, Mercury hisses but lets go of him. She beams up to Deacon, swallowing the anger that tightens her chest at the memory of their last face-to-face encounter.

He catches her look, but remains silent. By now Deacon realized his eyes learned to betray him, giving away more than he usually intends to.

“So?” he starts, his gaze wandering through the little basement and landing on the crumbled form of the dead familiar. Some of his limbs are laying in unnatural angles, the bones broken in ways so they still wouldn't pierce the skin but destroy the flesh underneath. The poor bastard must have been in indescribable pain.

A neat work, a work by Mercury's hands.

And a reflection of what Deacon put her through the past month. For this he feels bad, partially.

“Nothing”, she mumbles and stems her arms akimbo. “Think this whole deal had been a set up.”

Deacon nods. He had thought of this possibility, but hoped until this point that maybe Lady Fortune would grand him some luck. Not that he believed in any gods, it was more of a habitual thing.

“Well, that's a pity”, he mutters, trying not to let his voice sound too worn out.

Above their heads the ceiling hums in a quick and steady rhythm, the old concrete shaken by the club's nightly life. For a moment all three of them just stand and stare at the scene displaying in front of them. Even Quinn cuts the less than witty remarks.

“What now?”

Mercury's face has darkened in, what, worry. Her expression is stern, still having that slight hint of anger, as usual, but her eyes carry the same anxiety she wore when Deacon turned her. He wishes he could sooth her now as he did back then, but his hands are empty of flat motivational phrases.

“You did good”, he says instead. “You two did good. I should have known it wouldn't be this easy.”

“No thing, Deac”, Quinn comments, followed by a nervous laugh. “I mean, it's no big deal, right? We haven't even started yet. We could always... y'know, interrogate more of 'em. Some of them have to know something. Right? Merc, what do you say?”

But Mercury keeps silent. She is still watching Deacon, as realization sinks slowly in.

“You have no idea what to do next”, she says, the words coming out like a breath, mirroring the defeat in the man's eyes. “That's it, you don't know what to do anymore.”

As he would love to negate the statement, Deacon can't. Because it's true. There are no more cards up his sleeve. He has set them all on his companions and familiars, the trick that used to work out every time.

“But...”, Quinn starts, his head wildly swinging from Deacon to Mercury, and back again. “Does this mean... we- _we give up_?”

“No”, Deacon shakes his head, but avoids to look at him directly. “But there is nothing we can do right now. Only wait for MacHorvath's next move, which he probably has planned out already.”

“Like mice in front of a snake”, Mercury spits. She hates not being able to do anything. Just, sitting and waiting for a blow. Her fingers twitch nervously just at the thought of it.

“We will be ready”, Deacon interrupts her thoughts. “Whatever it is he keeps for us, we will be able to take it. There is only so much he can do without waking Dragonetti's suspicion. Just keep your heads down, no more hunting, no more corpses scattered in the basement... he's got nothing on us if we are there to catch the hit.”

Mercury nods in somewhat agreement, the move too sharp to cover her uncertainty. Quinn mutters something in the background, but is the first to step forward and grab the dead familiar by the ankles, or what's left of them.

“Better get rid of this then?” he mumbles, a small smile pulling at his lips.

**xXxXx**

“ _Don't go.”_

_The man looks down at him, the gray of his eyes flashing with guilt for a brief moment. Then they return to their usual bluntness. He looks at him as if he couldn't recognize him, and it hurts Josh more than the fiery tirades his father likes to give._

_He tugs at the worn out jacket once more, his fingers shaking by the held back tears._

_'Men don't cry. Tears are for weaklings not made for life.'_

_Josh swallows around the lump in his throat. On his lips lies a silent “please”, but he knows this has never worked on the man before._

“ _Josh, come here.”_

_Before he can move a warm hand lands on his shoulder and pulls him back, firmly. His father's gaze follows him, then it flicks up to his mother. There is no guilt in his eyes this time. It's something way worse._

_They stand like that for a moment, all three of them. His father's hand is still clutching the door knob, the sea bag dangling off one shoulder, as his mother holds him pressed against her front. Josh is barely tall enough to reach over her navel, but he can feel the excited heart beat in the finger tips pressing against his chest._

“ _What are you waiting for?” It sounds less like a question than a challenge, like his father might really stay this time, with them. Forget whatever he thinks may wait for him out there and return into the warmth of their living room. Maybe it would even be one of those rare evenings where Josh would snick up into his lap and cuddle against the man's form without being pushed aside. Usually, when this happened, he was just too drunk to take notice of the boy, but one time, Josh remembers well, a blanket has been draped around his form, just as he was falling into a dreamless sleep._

_As his gaze flickers up to the silent man in front of him, the memory seems almost spurious._

“ _What about you and the boy?” he asks, his voice nothing more than a hoarse whisper._

“ _We will be alright”, his mother croaks. Her fingers clutch the fabric underneath tighter. “We have Ben and Madge to look after us, and, in case...”_

_Her voice dies, not able to finish the sentence._

_The man nods and turns back to the wooden door. The knob gives a whimpering creak and Josh feels the urge to rush forward. He can't go, he can't--!_

“ _One of those days...”, she suddenly starts again. “One of those days, I wish you wouldn't come back.”_

_No one would have noticed the way his father's shoulders tensed at this comment, how the knuckles around the door knob turned white for a second, before the show was over. Josh started to breath heavier, his thumping heart and small pants the only sound filling the small hall. He grabs those hands around his shoulders, blunt nails digging into thin skin and just when he feels a scream starting to build in his throat, ready to burst, the door swings open._

_And then he's gone. Quickly swallowed by the dark of the stairway._

_Josh feels something in him thrash up, just to die away when his mother begins to sob quietly._

_Now this is all they have left._

**xXxXx**

He wakes to the feeling of cold lips against his neck. Scud yelps, pushing against the weight against his sides and receives a little groan.

“Sorry”, he mumbles into the dark, reaching out, carefully this time, to brush over Deacon's forehead he had just previously smacked.

“All fine”, Scud hears him say, followed by a weary sigh. “Should have thought of that...”

The mattress gives slightly in under the new weight and it takes them a moment to arrange themselves, until they have settled in a position with Scud's legs sneaked around Deacon's waist. He places an apologetic kiss to the other man's forehead.

“Sorry 'bout earlier”, he whispers, not sure why he keeps his voice low. There is no one in the apartment but them. “Hope Missouri didn't try to tear you a new one.”

“Don't worry about it, she did that often enough. It's a kind of thing between us.”

Scud chuckles, pulling himself closer to the body he got to know during the past weeks.

They lay like that for a few moments, the silence not as uncomfortable as it had been at times. Scud listens to his own heart beat, the only one there is. Before his next move he clears his throat, shuffling even closer and placing a hand on Deacon's neck. He can't see a thing in the darkness of the room and usually it would scare the living hell out of him, but Deacon's presence is like a soothing anchor, a silent reminder that there is nothing to hurt him here.

“You maybe, uhm, wanna do something?” he mumbles, biting his lip just for the show of it, feeling the other man's eyes on him. A rustle of fabric and he shivers at the nails tenderly stroking his sides.

“Do you?” Deacon asks in return.

Scud smiles. He knows Deacon does this out of courtesy, something he wouldn't have thought him to ever accomplish. He also knows that Deacon knows he mostly does this for him. Scud has become a little blunt to the topic of physical release. He sees it from a more neutral side. Though he still takes pleasure in it and enjoys it, with Deacon, it still has a certain meaning for him. A professional side he can't yet shake off.

“Still have to make up for earlier”, Scud jokes. Only that it takes the wrong direction.

Suddenly the hands on his sides are gone and he feels Deacon move onto his back.

“You don't have to make up for anything”, he speaks into the space above them, his voice taken a gravel tone.

He feels his heart jump, quickly to recover from his paralyzed state and inches closer again.

“That's not what I meant”, he tries to explain and worries a spot on Deacon's jaw. “I just want you to relax.”

He places a kiss right onto the corner of the cold mouth. “Want you to forget 'bout anything that's keeping this pretty head of yours occupied. Come on, didn't mean it like... like that...”

“I know”, Deacon whispers, turning his head to return the coy kiss. Their lips part with a small smacking sound. Scud laughs. Suckhead becomes a whole new meaning with the way Deacon kisses.

“But, to be honest, I'm pretty tired. It's been a disappointing night, so, let's just go back to sleep. Okay?”

Scud nods, burying his face into the crook of Deacon's neck so he wouldn't see the expression on his face. He feels it's his fault that it has been a disappointing night for the man. Usually, he always thinks it's his fault if things don't go right.

The fights of his parents, his father's leaving, all those evenings in his bed when he listened to the tears of his mother in the next room. Then her death. The orphanage and how he always stood out. His shrink had only let him go because she had given up on him. The following years that mixed to a blur of shadowy figures and dirtied memories. The capture, he deserved it, everything that had been done to him. He should have died there, really should have. It would have been easier for Deacon. He is just in this much trouble because of him.

Scud holds his breath, counts slowly to twenty, before he releases it again. When his head begins to spin with shame and the urge to just claw his own face off, this is what brings a short peace to his mind. Still, his unease mirrors in every fiber and muscle of his body.

Deacon sighs, patting his back lazily. “Go to sleep, Scud.”

“Okay. 'm sorry.”

**xXxXx**

The letter with it's clean, white envelope creates an obtrusive contrast against the dark wood of Deacon's desk. He stares at the small thing as if trying to set it on fire. Sadly, it refuses to and instead keeps on being an insult to his view.

Who in hell's name still writes letters? It's just another showing of Dragonetti's dusty traditions.

Like it could bite him, he reaches for it with careful fingers, reveling for a moment in the sharp sound the thin paper creates as he rips it open and pulls out the folded writing. It's an invitation, it's always an invitation. Another one of his “parties”, with everybody who is anybody. Saying, the same old bastards who will look down on him and ask him rhetorical questions about his growing tribe or proud family history. Alistair had history, but he never attends to those events. In this they share the same distaste for their race.

He looks up at Petty, his unwillingness displayed in his features.

“Do I have to go?” he asks.

“I fear yes, sir”, the young woman answers. “I have laid out a suit for you and called a chauffeur. He should be here in an hour.”

“Since when do you have this letter?” Deacon frowns.

“It came today, Mr. Frost. But I think it may have been... troubled to reach it's destination in proper time.”

“Has it already been opened?”

“No, sir.”

Deacon mutters under his breath and screws up the piece of paper in his hands. So the letter has been deliberately held back. And probably opened. Not that he would fear about any secrets being spilled, there is only so much a preprinted letter can give away, but if they have done it with one, there is nothing to keep them from doing it with the rest of his mail. Deacon rubs his temples, glaring at the torn envelope on his desk. He feels weirdly vulnerable. And indescribably furious. How dare they touch his stuff?

“I will retake my place in the hall now, sir.”

“Hm? Oh, yes, of course.”

He watches her walk away, her high heels making light clicking sounds on the marble floor. Suddenly she turns her head to the right and smiles at someone. Scud must have woken up.

With a drawn out sigh Deacon rises from his chair. He feels... old. Never have so many things gone wrong at the same time. He isn't used to having so little control over his life, something Deacon definitely doesn't want to become a habit.

“Morning”, Scud greets as he steps out of his bureau. Deacon suppresses the urge to snarl.

“It's night, if you haven't noticed”, he mutters, directing to the windows in a vague gesture.

“Well, it's morning for me, since I just got up. Night is when you're sleeping, morning is when you get up. And I just did.”

Deacon looks at him as if he lost his mind for a moment, before shaking the boy's rationality off. “That doesn't even make sense. Maybe Missouri was wrong and you do have a concussion. Just do me the favor and keep your mouth shut, okay?”

As he trots past the human he could swear he heard something like “Grumpy McGrumpington”, but chooses to ignore it. He still needs his nerves for the upcoming event.

He steps into the kitchen, opens the fridge and closes it with a glare again. His whole body feels like it's preparing for a fight and his stomach twists uncomfortably. If it wasn't for the anger, he would call it social anxiety. But it's not that, he's not afraid of people – he just hates them.

“Having a bad day?” Scud slides onto one of the counter chairs.

“It's not--”, Deacon starts, but drops the rest in a snarl. How can one single person be so annoyingly positive? Usually no one's really positive around him. Active, in a vengeful way, but not exactly positive.

Scud plays with a crumble on the counter. He is not the tidiest person, an experience Deacon had to make at this point several times. “I heard you two talking. You're going out again?”

He looks up to the other man, his eyes giving away just the slightest hint of worry.

“I have to”, Deacon sighs, almost apologetically. “It's some official thing and Dragonetti already has his ugly pop eyes on me. Right now I'm trying to stay out of his focus.”

“I see”, the boy nods, but it's obvious he's not completely satisfied with the answer. “So... it's bad?”

“What's bad?” But Deacon can already imagine what he means.

“The thing, y'know, the situation, with...”

He halts, hesitantly and suddenly his whole world is sized down to the crumble under his fingers. Deacon watches him, leaning against the counter from the other side, not sure whether to lean in or back away. Scud swallows heavily.

“Say it again. The thing you said in, in the bathtub.”

Deacon straightens his position, leaning forward and searching Scud's eyes. When the human looks up to him, his gaze full of fear and doubt, Deacon tries a reassuring smile.

“You're safe here”, he says, voice firm. “He won't hurt you again.”

Scud nods slowly. His gaze flickers and his lips are tightly pressed together. When his hands begin to shake, he quickly hides them in his lap.

“'kay”, he whispers, coughing when his voice cracks.

Deacon doesn't feel comfortable with letting him alone, but he has no other choice. He wouldn't stay long, only talk to the necessary ones, endure some sarcastic comments and judging looks, and then head back again. It wouldn't take the whole night and when he's back, he could take care of Scud as much as the human needs.

“I have to get ready now”, he says slowly. Dimly, he notices that Scud nods, but keeps quiet.

When he moves around the corner, he stops behind the human's slumped form. For a moment his hand is hovering over the skinny back, but then he drops it and heads for the bedroom. Not without his stomach twisting in guilt.

**xXxXx**

They say their good bye almost professionally. At least on Deacon's part. Scud stays frozen in his spot while he watches the man put on his coat and head for the door. His whole chest tightens with the sight.

'Don't worry', he tries to calm himself, 'he said you'd be fine, Deacon wouldn't lie. Don't be such a sissy, it's one night.'

He cracks a fake smile when Deacon turns to wave him good bye. As soon as the door falls shut, the little courage Scud had felt rise up in his chest dies out, and he finds himself standing in an apartment that is suddenly very quiet and very lonely.

Deacon allowed him to move around his home, except for the bureau, but there is no corner Scud hasn't explored yet. He sits down on the couch, pulls out a cigarette from the pack on the coffee table and listens to the distant sound of running water, as drag after drag the nicotine floods his system. His fingers are constantly fidgeting with the stub in between, or pulling at imagined fluffs on his clothes. His bright mood from earlier is erased and Scud regrets having himself allowed to be so positive in the first place.

After his fifth cigarette his mind is a little eased and he stands on shaky legs. He feels vulnerable in the wide living room, with his back to the open space and those glass walls all around him. He decides to go back to sleep and hopefully wake up to the sound of Deacon coming back. With his clothes still on, he falls face first into the pillows, grabs the one next to him, Deacon's, and curls around it. With this little reminder of safety, he falls asleep.

**xXxXx**

_He never knew wood could make such loud noises._

_That's the only thought to cross his mind as the door splinters and the tip of an axe is starring right at him. Josh is standing in the hall, still in his pyjama. A knock on the front door has woken him up and sleep drunken he had stumbled out of his room, only to be greeted with the sight of this._

_Just when he opens his mouth to yell for his mother, a hand shoves itself in his view, pressing his jaw shut._

“ _Shh”, his mother whispers. “Make no sound.”_

_Her breath is warm against his cheek. Josh notices how quick it goes and how the hands holding him shake like they never shook before._

_He is hauled up, the world turning into a wild blur as the pictures on the wall slide past his view in a rush. They all seem contorted and his head feels so light._

_They enter a room and despite the darkness Josh makes out the contours of his parents' bed and large closet. His mother curses under her breath when another noise fills the air – a door being kicked open._

_She sets him to the ground, whirls around to close the bedroom door, very carefully and grabs his small arm to drag him over the closet._

“ _Mommy?” Josh whimpers, the first tears entering his eyes. He is so confused._

“ _It's okay, baby, it's all fine”, she whispers, but her voice is higher than usual and she shakes like a little leaf. “Get in here.”_

_She opens the closet's door and nudges him in. Josh grabs her hands, while her other is shoving at him._

“ _I'm scared”, he trembles, the first coherent thought to enter his mind the one to break his mother. She hiccups, the wetness on her face catching the bright moon light that falls through the window._

“ _I know, Josh, but don't be. Don't be scared. You'll be alright, I promise, everything will be alright. Just don't make a sound, no matter what you hear or see. You don't make a sound, Josh!”_

_She grabs him by his thin shoulders. It hurts but the boy is too stunned to say a word. The tears are now blurring his vision, he can't see his mother's face that is distorted in panic and pain. With the next blinking, the tears fall free and with his voice shaking almost too badly to speak, he whimpers: “I promise.”_

_His mother smiles, rubbing a thumb over his cheek._

“ _My sweet baby”, she mumbles._

_A crashing sound against the bedroom's door pulls a panicked shriek from her throat. Her nails bury into his flesh as she turns him around and pushes him into the stuffed closet. Josh falls to his knees and when he looks over his shoulder, the doors close behind him, blocking his mother from his view. He wants to scream, yell for his mommy, feel her arms around him. But he promised, and so he keeps quiet._

_Another crash, the sound of wood flying through the air like he had heard it just minutes before and a loud yell from his mother. Then there are voices, Josh can't tell how many, but they fill the air completely. The only one he can make out is hers. Something falls against the closet's door and Josh swallows a shriek. With both hands pressed against his mouth he scrambles back until his heels hit the wall. The small space is filled with clothes of his mother and his father, draping over his shoulders like thin arms and embracing him with a familiar scent. Josh digs his nails into the skin of his mouth, when his mother begins to scream._

_It's the only thing to fill his world and he doesn't know how long it goes, but when she falls silent, he can still hear the sounds in his head. They won't die out, not even when the doors open again and a man in a blue uniform is filling his view. He shouts something over his shoulder, then he crawls into Josh's space, invading his world._

_He says something, a smile showing his crooked teeth, but his eyes are full of sorrow. Josh keeps quiet, his mother told him not to say a word._

_They take him with them, away from his safe place in the closet and then there are hands on the back of his head, pressing his face into the man's shoulder. He can't see, but he smells. A smell he will never forget. He catches a glimpse of the room as he stares down the man's arm. Everything is red and as he walks away, Josh sees his mother's face. The gold of her hair is dirtied and the little he can make out of what used to be his mother, is staring up at him from one eye, dead and cold. Josh screams._

**xXxXx**

The party is just as expected. Boring and full of ass climbing non-pure bloods. Deacon lets his gaze wander lazily, as Dragonetti at his right fills his ear with trifles. He nods every now and then, but doesn't really listen. His eyes search the room for a certain person, but he can't seem to find him. Finally, he finds a reason to turn around and look his companion in the eyes.

“Say, have you seen Anton MacHorvath?” he asks, trying to sound as nonchalantly as possible.

Dragonetti falters, interrupted in his speech about pure bloods and the importance of traditions, and shoots Deacon a curious glare out of pale eyes.

“MacHorvath?” he echoes, like he's hearing the name for the first time. “He hasn't greeted me yet, so I assume he has not yet arrived.”

“Of course”, Deacon mumbles and falls back into his state of disinterest and resignation.

**xXxXx**

For a moment, everything is turning. The walls are upside down and it feels like he is being pulled from a great height. Scud clutches the fabric under his fingertips. He's panting, like he just ran a mile and his heart is beating painfully against his ribcage. With a grunt he sits up, moaning when the world spins back into it's right place, but the feeling in his stomach stays. He is bathed in sweat, some has wet the bedsheets and Scud knows Deacon will make a fuss about it.

He covers his eyes despite the darkness. His head is ringing with the memory of the dream and there is something wet pressing against his fingertips that isn't sweat. Scud sighs and wipes his hand on a dry pillow. It's not the first time he dreamt about his mother being murdered, but it never has been this intensive. There is an echo of her screams, and it's burned into his conscious mind.

“Please”, he whispers into the dark of the apartment. “Please go away.”

There is no answer.

Suddenly the sound of the door falling shut yanks him out of his state. He stares into the darkness of the room, and when his head catches up his heart begins to feel lighter again.

Deacon is back.

He crawls out of the bed, trying to rearrange his clothes, but realizing there is not much sense to it. Then he heads for the living room where the lights are still turned on.

“Deacon?” he calls, falling into a little jog. The sense of safety is catching up with him. “You're already back? Good, to be honest, I was a little worried. Hey, how wa--”

He breaks mid sentence. His body shakes, despite the feeling of his blood turning to ice. The world begins to spin again.

“No”, he whimpers and he stares at the man slowly walking into the apartment, hands burrowed in his wide coat. “No, no, no, no...”

His heart is beating so fast it must burst out of his chest any second. If he lives that long, a part of his mind adds.

“What a nice place”, Anton purrs, letting his gaze wander through the apartment. He smiles, a fake cold smile like Scud has seen it so many times already. “Frost really has no taste, has he?”

Then Anton's eyes land on him.

**xXxXx**

It took him so long, way too long, to find Frost's place. The idea of intercepting his letters just came recently, the moment when Dragonetti told him he was planning yet another party. Anton wasn't even sitting in his car, when the order was already out. The difficulty with Dragonetti's letters was that it was almost impossible to find out their final destination. That is, if you don't have the needed connections to get a hold of the messenger and test his loyalty to his master to an expert level. He failed, but, generous as Anton was, let him go. With just three fingers missing. The little wretch helped him after all. As soon as Frost's address was noted, the rest pretty much fell in place by itself. Dragonetti wouldn't start to fidget so soon if he arrives a little later, and so Anton has time. A lot of time, and he would make sure to enjoy every second of it.

“I missed you”, he whispers, just sharp enough to see the human's form tense up. “Did you miss me too?”

He doesn't approach him directly, instead takes his time to investigate the place. He picks up a thing or two, sets it back down with deliberate carefulness and acts as if he hadn't noticed the rabid heart beat thundering in his ears. The sound awakes a welcomed memory in him and Anton sighs at the imagined feeling of flesh around his fangs.

“I went through a lot of troubles because of you”, he muses and lets his gloved fingers wander over the smooth surface of the counter. Making his way into the pet's direction. “Mostly because I wasn't expecting Frost to be such a fool. A little brat who doesn't know his place maybe, but rational enough to not challenge me.”

He draws the last two words out and ends them in a warning growl. The human looks like he is ready to faint any second. Anton can smell the panic flood his living system and it kicks his own arousal.

“You should be thankful”, he purrs, now only a few steps separating him from the warm body. “I gave your life a reason. Don't tell me Frost was able to do the same? He's not half the man to be capable of what I am able to do.”

His voice lowers and he lets his gaze wander over the human's form. He looks better, healthier. Frost must have taken care of him. The reason for that is slipping out of his mind's grip. “Did he mark you? Did he make you his own with a little ink and some glyph on your skin?”

Another step and the breath in the pet's chest hitches. “Or did he really make you his own? Are you his bitch now, sucking him off whenever he pleases and riding him like the filthy little slut you are? You're probably welcoming him with spread legs every night he returns. You should both thank me, I taught you so well.”

He raises a hand, letting it linger inches over the human's skin. The heat radiating off the body is waking the predator in him. For the next words he leans in very close and lets his rotten breath dance over the pet's face: “I can still taste you.”

The human is shaking like a leaf, eyes going into the distance, losing the soul behind again. He is already retreating to whatever place he went to when Anton took him. A slap across the face would always pull him back again, but this he won't do, not tonight. Although every fiber in his dead body is screaming to reach out and take what is rightfully his. This is his fucking pet after all! With a heavy sigh he tries to calm the rage thrashing inside of him again. No, not tonight, he can wait, he waited so long. It will make the victory just so much sweeter.

“But the reason I came here”, he says as if continuing a story, “is to leave a message. For Frost. I want him to know that neither he nor his companions are safe from me and that I give him one last chance to get things right. If he doesn't do just as I say, he will regret the day his maker bore those fangs through his skin and made him one of us! He can't win against me and he knows that, always did. So, what can you expect from all of this, my little pet? Frost won't protect you. He will realize his failure and turn you back, to me, where you belong. I have waited so, so long for you, my pet. But next time, and this I promise, I won't be so generous and kill you. Next time, we will have real fun.”

**xXxXx**

His cell phone rings and Deacon is just too happy to leave the conversation. He excuses himself halfheartedly and, with a sigh, picks up.

“Yeah?”

A sob at the other end, then a sniffle and incoherent mumbling. Deacon's posture goes rigid. “Who's there?”

“Mr. Frost?”

“Miss Bloom?” he asks, alarm and panic grabbing at his chest. “What is wrong? Why are you calling?”

“I'm so sorry”, she whispers before another hiccup shakes her voice. “I didn't know... he just came in and I, I-- I'm so sorry, sir, I couldn't know!”

“Miss Bloom”, he whispers while making his way through the crowd as quick as possible, “calm down and tell me what happened.”

Another sniffle, Deacon can feel she is fighting to regain some self-control.

“It's him, he was here. He just... he just came in and-- it's Scud.”

Her voice breaks again. Deacon stops dead in his tracks. The only sound that fills his head is the quiet sobbing of his secretary and nothing else. He knows some of the people are staring at him, wondering about the shock displayed on his features, but his whole focus is now on the little voice at the other end of the connection.

_It's Scud._

“I'm on my way”, he says and hurries over to the doors.

**xXxXx**

Never has the way home been longer than tonight and Deacon feels himself sent back into the night when he tried to save Scud's life for the first time. But now he feels utterly helpless, with no body to cling to, talk to and reassure himself of a slow but steady heart beat. Maybe he will never feel that pulse under his fingertips again, never feel his warmth or his own hands, never hear that voice again...

He runs past the elevator and takes the stairs, reaching the door to his apartment in record time and all but busting it open.

Petty whirls around, staring at him with wide, teary eyes. Her mascara is a little smeared and Deacon directly notices the thick stream of blood running from her nose over her chin. Some of it has sprinkled onto her light rose blouse.

“I'm so sorry”, she whimpers again. “He just walked in...”

Then he sees the unmoving form of Scud laying to her knees. He rushes past her, drops down to the floor and runs a hand over the human's carotid. There is a pulse, but it's way too fast, faintly rushing against his tips almost without a break. The eyes are open, half-lidded staring up, past him, somewhere into the distance. The usual warmth is replaced with a clammy coldness.

“He has a shock”, Deacon mumbles. He shoves his hands under the boy's form and lifts him up.

“Bathroom”, he commands shortly. Petty gets up immediately and opens the door for him. Without wasting a second Deacon crosses the room, enters the shower and turns it as hot as possible.

The water comes gushing down on them and within a second they are both drained. Petty is standing outside the showers, staring at Deacon with fearful eyes while he carefully settles on the shower's floor with the body in his arms. He rubs across the human's chest, hoping, praying. The warmth returns, but that could just be the water. Deacon knows it's just a memory, but his own heart almost hurts with fear, as he brushes the hair out of Scud's eyes, mumbling and placing soft kisses to his forehead.

“Come one, please, please. Come back to me, I beg you”, he whispers, pressing his eyes shut as the hot water rains down on them.

Suddenly Scud's whole body tenses and then he coughs, eyes blinking and with a weak shriek he claws at the arms holding him.

Torn between relief and panic, Deacon holds him tighter against his chest, calling things like “It's me, it's okay!” or “I got you, Scud, I got you”. It takes some moments before the human finally relaxes, having the little energy he had left spent again. He slumps back against Deacon's form, blinking away the water that had caught in his lashes and sucks in the air in harsh gulps.

They stay like that for several minutes, Deacon holding him, mumbling reassuring words, Petty watching them with new tears staining her cheeks and a hand over her mouth. It takes several minutes before Scud opens his mouth and mumbles “liar”, before letting himself drift off again.

**xXxXx**

As the needle pushes through the thin skin, Missouri looks up at him expectantly. She remembers the last time she gave the boy an injection and almost received a black eye in return. But today he keeps perfectly still. He's not even looking at her, his gaze lingering on something to his side she can't see.

With a mutter she pulls the thin cannula out of his arm and presses a little cotton swab to the puncture wound.

“Hold this”, she commands and Scud does as he's told.

She throws the utensils back into her medical bag and takes a searching look over the boy's form. He doesn't seem to have endured any harm, besides the obvious psychological damage.

“Did he touch you?” she asks bluntly. No sense being picky now.

“No”, Scud mumbles, his eyes still avoiding hers.

“Did he take anything from you?”

“He didn't do anything”, Scud whispers, his voice on the verge of breaking again.

“Well”, Missouri starts, “then my work is done here. Take some rest, don't drive for the rest of the night and always drink enough water.”

She stands and leaves the boy be. He doesn't even seem to have noticed her lack of presence. Deacon and Mercury are watching him from the other end of the room. Deacon is shaking, not with fear, but with wrath. Missouri comes to halt in front of them. A look from Mercury and she forgets the witty comment that had been dancing on her tongue.

“What now?” she asks instead, letting her bag unceremoniously drop to the floor.

A row of brutal looking familiars, some with uniforms, some without, is hanging around and inside the building. Missouri mustered everyone of them on her way upstairs and wondered if she was getting too old for the job.

“I'm going to fucking kill him!” Deacon hisses. In all those years, she has seen Frost spreading his fury several times, but it never send such violent shivers down her spine. He is also the only client she visits without two bodyguards watching her back, something she regrets now.

“Don't lose your head”, she tries, voice hard. “That's exactly what he wants.”

“She's right, Deacon”, Mercury voices in.

“He hurt my secretary, he broke into my apartment and he threatened my pet – I am going to end him. No one's playing with me like that, no one!”

The two women share a quick look, having a silent agreement they never before thought to have one day.

“Look, Frost, I know you're angry, I would be too if someone touched my stuff, but this isn't some silly boy fight... this is real and from what Scud said, MacHorvath is just waiting for you.”

“No, he's waiting for me to give up! I'm going to kick his teeth in and keep his fangs as a trophy, that's something he won't expect.”

It feels as if his whole form is on fire and something raging up inside of him again and again, kicking against his self-restraint to not go and rip MacHorvath apart right now.

“Call Quinn”, he tells Mercury. “I need him and his men here.”

“Okay”, Mercury mumbles, knowing there is no sense in arguing with her maker.

Missouri rolls her eyes, but keeps quiet. The situation is scaring her more than she would admit to show, the fear of having to pick up the pieces afterward gnawing at her insides.

“You'll go down, Deacon”, she comments. “And you're going to leave a path of bloody limbs and despair behind. Do you really want that? Do you want that for him?”

With a short gesture she waves into the direction of the boy. For a moment, Deacon shifts uncomfortably, but then he strides past her and right into Scud's direction, the small woman completely forgotten.

He crouches down in front of Scud, one hand carefully on the boy's thigh. Scud doesn't even look at him.

“I'm sorry”, he says.

“Liar”, Scud mumbles and pulls his hand away when Deacon tries to reach for it. It takes all of his composure to not let the surprise and rage overtake him. With a deep breath he rubs a thumb over the human's thigh, trying to find his gaze. But Scud is somewhere else, having shut down completely.

It's like they're right back at the start again, only that the roles are reverse.

“I wasn't lying, Scud. I thought-- I thought it would be safe here, that he would never dare to take this step. But I was wrong and you had to take the hit. I'm sorry for that, for disappointing you. I will make up for it.”

There is no reaction, but he didn't expect one. Deacon gets up again, just when Mercury approaches him.

“I called Quinn, he will be here in a minute. We should go, Deacon.”

He nods, but his gaze is still locked on Scud. One good thing about the fury flooding his system, is that it keeps out the guilt that threatens to weigh his heart down.

“I have to go now”, he says lowly. “But I'll be back, I promise. Everything will be alright.”

Just when he wants to turn around, Scud shifts, looks up to him. He breathes harshly, already on the verge of breaking down again. Deacon halts.

“Don't go”, he mumbles and swallows against the tears forming in his eyes. “I don't want to be alone.”

“You won't”, Deacon tries to reassure him and sinks down to him again.

“You can't know that”, Scud croaks and now he fully turns to him. He grabs the hand reaching out to him. “It's never ending good and I don't want you to leave me, please, I don't--”

A hiccup breaks off the rest of the sentence.

Deacon cracks a weak smile. “It'll be okay. I'll have Missouri and Petty look out for you here until I come back.”

He watches Scud lift his hand to his mouth, placing a soft kiss on his wrist. He tries to ignore the knot in his chest.

“And when I'm back, it's finally over. I will take care of him and then he will never hurt you again. Never, you hear? I will make sure of that, Scud.”

There is nothing to convince him, Deacon can see it in his eyes and the way he clings to him, even when he stands up and gently releases his hand from the boy's grip. A look and Missouri is there to place her hands on his shoulders.

“Don't worry about him”, she says firmly. “You take care of that bastard, and when you're back, Frost, I expect double-payment.”

She smiles and Deacon tries to smile back, but it comes out as a worried line.

He doesn't want to go, doesn't want to leave Scud behind. Again. But there is no other choice. He has to put an end to all of this, and he has to do it tonight. With a last look on Scud he leaves the apartment, the view quickly blocked by the row of familiars following them. They enter the elevator and Deacon takes a look at Mercury. She is staring straight ahead, silently.

Deacon straightens his posture.

“When we leave the building”, he says, “I want you to head into the other direction. Leave the city, the country at best. Just go. I don't want you involved in this.”

He expected a fight, an insult, a heated argument. But he didn't expect the laugh that escapes her throat. It's not an angry one, in fact, it sounds honestly amused.

“Oh Deacon”, she purrs and throws him a quick look. “We're far from you telling me what to do here. If you hadn't noticed, I'm in this just as much as you are, such is Quinn. I'm not going anywhere, my place is here, with you. No matter how you feel about us, you're still my maker and my friend. That's more worth than an immortal lifetime spend in loneliness.”

They stare at each other for a moment. But then Deacon chuckles and shakes his head.

“Turning you was my best decision”, he admits.

“Damn right.”

**xXxXx**

Petty yelps when her nose is bent back into it's original position. She reaches for it, but Missouri bats her hands away.

“Don't touch it, stupid. Here, take this”, she says and hands her a cold application. “It'll swell, but if you don't play with it, it should heal quickly.”

Petty nods.

“'ank you”, she mumbles, voice sounding like she caught a cold.

“We all had a tough day today, angel cake.” Missouri gives her a pat on the thigh and turns her attention back to the silent boy. He hadn't said a word, but on the other hand, Missouri hadn't exactly tried to make conversation.

“He'll be fine”, she tries to reassure him for the God knows what often time. She lost count of it. It has been some hours since they left and so far no report on their state.

Scud nods, but it seems robotic. She could bet he doesn't even listen to her anymore.

Petty to her side fidgets. “I'll ko an' see iv I ca' see 'em”, she suggests and, with a wave of Missouri's hand, leaves the apartment.

That leaves just them two. Doesn't matter, Missouri encountered more miserable situations. As she mentally goes through all those times Scud turns a little to her.

“Why are you doing this?” he asks quietly.

“Good payment.”

“That's not the reason.”

Missouri looks at him, considering her next answer. “You see, I'm a doctor. It may not look like it sometimes, but I am. Just like every doctor I did it for the same two reasons: to help the people, and money. But I quickly discovered that this whole “helping the people” part is more frustrating than I thought. In most cases, I couldn't even really help them – it was more of putting a delay to things. Don't ask me how I got into this, this whole vampire doc thing, it just happened. You kind of just slide into it, but, I guess, you know that yourself, don't you? Mhm, thought so. So, with the time, it got more about the money. But the first part stuck, deep down, or something, and when I saw Deacon, with you... let's say, it was a really difficult, twisted thing, but it put more hope in me than I thought it ever would. I think you two are doing a better job than most other people, and you keep working on it. That's something.”

During her talking, Scud had lifted his head and is now looking at her. His gaze is still unsure, kind of wary and the tiredness is written all over his features. But he seems to have listened to her, really listened to her, and Missouri smiles at him. Maybe it even got to him.

Suddenly her phone rings and with a curse she jumps up from the couch, searching her purse for the small thing.

“Yes?” she barks. There is a moment where she says nothing, then all the color leaves her face. She drops the phone and Scud can hear Petty's shrill voice on the other end. Scud slowly stands up.

“Missouri?”

“Hide!” Her eyes are filled with panic and Scud feels his stomach do a violent turn. She reaches out for him with her small hands, pushes him, but he doesn't move an inch. “Run, boy – just go!”

That's when he hears the angry screaming. Missouri gasps, another curse escaping her lips. Then the front door flies open and in a wild whirl of ashes and dust Mercury enters.

“Where is he?!”

She finds his scent before he sees him, which is plausible, as her left eye is missing. Where a pale blue should be, Scud stares at a bloody, hollow socket. His stomach does another turn and now he backs away.

“You fucking, little maggot - I will kill you!”

She lunges for him but collides with Missouri's small body as the woman steps into her way. Scud shakes his head incomprehensibly. In the back of his head a voice starts to speak, but he doesn't want to listen.

“I don't... I don't... why--”

Mercury thrashes, lunges for him and backs away with a horrified scream when a silvery fog suddenly embraces her. Missouri is back at his side, in her hand a little spray gun. When the furious vampire yanks her hands off her face, the socket started to bleed again. Thick blood runs down her pale face and not even her untouched lips or the blond of her hair could make her look any less brutal now.

“It's you!” she screams and clutches at her chest as the silver eats away at her already burned skin. “You killed him! It's your fault, you fucking killed him! He's dead, Deacon's dead. You hear me? He is gone and it's your fault! You--”

“Get her outta here!” Missouri barks at someone over Mercury's shoulder and then there is Quinn's large form behind her. Scud catches his look and he can see the wrath bubbling behind them.

“Come one, Merc, we have to go. Now!”

He all but drags the screaming woman out of the apartment, both leaving a trail of smeared blood on the floor. Missouri's shouting the whole time, making wild gestures before throwing the door shut. The abused hinges make a painful squeaking sound, barely drowning out the screaming and curses which fade out with every passing second.

“Good grief”, she mumbles and brushes the ashes off which collected on her clothes when she collided with Mercury. “Scud, are you alright?”

She turns and catches the look on his face. Carefully, she approaches him. “Scud?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you alright?”

“Sure”, he mumbles. He looks down to his feet. Some of Mercury's blood has sprinkled onto his shirt and jeans. The picture of her hollow eye socket is ghosting in front of his view. What did she say? Oh yeah, Deacon is dead. So they lost. They lost, Deacon is dead and judging by the way Quinn panicked MacHorvath already on the way to him.

“I think you should go now”, Scud says and looks at Missouri. She suddenly seems so small and so weak.

With careful steps he walks over the bloody puddles on the floor, sits down on the couch and puts both hands over his mouth.

_Make no sound._


	10. Chapter 10

_He can't breath. His body spasms with the lack of oxygen and the view starts to flicker. The stars above blur together to a white mess, blinding as his body finally betrays him and the grip on the beast's shoulder starts to loosen. The only noise is the slowly retreating rush of blood in his ears, and the slurred mumble that wavers above him from time to time._

“ _It'll be over soon, dear,” she whispers in an attempt to sooth him._

_But it doesn't, he doesn't want it to be over. Not like this! Not this far from home, from his family... what will they think if he never comes back? His father will be heartbroken. And his mother-_

_A whimper escapes him, a final struggle, before the weight is pulling his whole body down._

_As consciousness leaves him, the last thing to flash through his foggy mind is the overwhelming guilt, the knowledge that he had betrayed them. A last shaky rattle, and the world turns dark around him._

 

**xXxXx**

 

The city is slowly awaking with the sun rising behind the large buildings. They reflect her beams, spreading them over the still sleepy city and just slowly starting to chase away the cold of the night. The sky is clear, it looks like it's going to be a nice day. Full of hopes and chances. Scud would be disgusted if the irony of the situation wasn't amusing him so much. The filter of the cigarette between his fingers is cold. He hasn't taken a drag for minutes and so the tip has already gone out. He flicks it aside and pulls out a new one.

There's nothing else to do, really.

As he reaches for the lighter next to his feet, Scud glances at the rising sun. This is what he has been dreading for so long, it's what he wanted most and never thought to be able to see ever again. But here he was, alive and letting the sun warm his skin.

How much he wishes it to be different.

He hears the approaching footsteps and before anything, he says: “They won't come during day.”

Missouri sighs. She's exhausted, has been staying up all night with him. Fear was what kept her awake, but now all she feels is annoyance.

“But after day comes night, eventually, and we have only so much time left to leave.”

“Nothing's keeping you,” he mumbles with another cigarette hanging between his lips. He forms a shield around the tip as the lighter's flame licks away at it.

“What's your problem?”

Her tone has taken a bitter note. They've been through this discussion over and over for the past few hours, but they never came far, quickly discovering that they had both clearly different intentions in mind. Missouri wanted to go and Scud wanted to stay. It couldn't be easier to understand, but the older woman refused to. It wouldn't bother him so much if she wasn't here. But she is, and that is his problem.

“Look,” he starts, not believing he's giving in to her again. “You can go. That's what you want, right? So go then, I won't stop you. There's the door. You even have the keys!”

“I want you to come with me”, she says with her stands on her hips, the garlic spray she had used on Mercury still in one hand.

Scud shakes his head.

“Why are you making this so hard?”

“Because I promised to take care of you,” she spits. Not for the first time. Scud knows her motives, but he can't bring himself to care.

“And you did, for as long as you had to. Deacon's gone, you don't have to keep that promise anymore. Really, I'm sure he doesn't care. That's what dead guys do, they don't care.”

Missouri snorts and falls silent. If only for short.

“We could go to that Alistair guy,” she muses. “He could help you.”

Scud flinches. Seeing Deacon's maker, the man who, technically, raised and protected him, is the last thing he wanted to do. He had accepted Scud because he was Deacon's pet, but since this isn't the case anymore, Scud doubted the man would have any sympathy left for him. Besides, he doesn't want to lead Anton onto their trails. This clusterfuck is his own. He doesn't want to imagine Moira's face when he walks through that door, alone and possibly putting her in danger.

“It's not their problem,” he says, taking a quick drag.

They fall silent for the moment. Under them, snippets of noises start to rise. Cars, people's chatter, rising to a steady buzz with every passing minute. It was so much different from the echoes of the night that had become Scud's day. This, the life and the light and the warmth, was day. It was life, it was good. Why didn't he want the gift that has been made to him?

Deacon would be mad at him for giving this opportunity away, with such calmness. But the man he never knew would stay silent, even inside his head.

The carrousel of thoughts had gone quiet.

“There is nothing left,” Missouri speaks softly. “The house, the ground... everything is gone. It's burned up, together with every soul inside. There is nothing left for you, Scud. It's time to go.”

He chews on his chipped lips, tasting the bitterness of the next words on his tongue for a moment.

“Would you bring me there?” he asks and turns his head just barely. “To the place, I mean.”

Missouri sighs. She has been expecting the question for sure.

“Scud...”

“You said it yourself, there is nothing left. And that's right! I have nothing left to lose. It's all gone.”

He watches her as she draws a fine hand up to her face, resting it above her eyes as if to shield them from the incoming words.

“I know,” she whispers then. “I know, I know.”

“So?”

“Stop pestering me, boy! If you really want to get yourself killed, then that's your business, not mine. But I won't be the one to push you off the cliff! You wanna go? Go. Here, have the keys. Take them, take them! You really want to die so badly? You really want to go there and be ripped to shreds by Anton's minions? Fine, _fine_. Do so, I won't stop you! Such a stupid, stupid boy.”

She snaps for air and turns away from him. Scud watches the tiniest tremble in her shoulders.

“I, uhm... I don't know the, uh, address. You gotta drive me.”

“God, I hate you so much.”

 

**xXxXx**

 

He doesn't know what he should expect, only that it should have included everything, including this.

Scud watches the tiny car round the corner and coming to a halt in front of him, not without giving an enthusiastic cough out of it's exhaust pipe. He leans down to get a better look onto the car's insides, eying the stubborn form of the steering wheel and dashboard.

“Is this safe?”

Missouri is pursing her lips. “You lived with a bloodthirsty undead man for a whole month and you ask me if my car is safe?”

“Uhm, I...”

“Just get in.”

The ride goes relatively easy, if Scud forgot about the elder woman's driving style of not rounding the corners but almost taking them with them. But when they arrive, in one piece, a weird silence falls upon them.

The engine stops and mutes, with a sigh Missouri leans back.

“Well, here we are.”

Scud looks down the road ahead of them, a dark forest path, leading into foggy darkness without giving away it's destination.

“This is it?” he whispers.

“This is it,” she replies. “That's the end of the line, boy.”

Scud turns to her, surprised. “You're not coming?”

“Hell no!” Missouri makes a face and laughs, but it sounds bitter. “If you want to get yourself killed, as I said, do so. But I haven't scheduled my life to end tonight, honey. And I really can't understand why you would...”

“Missouri.”

“He is dead, Scud! In fact, he has already been dead when you met him. And when he beat you and when he insulted you and when he took advantage of you. You are alive, he is not – not now, anyway. You could do better than to run after the ghost of a man that took so many lives already... he doesn't need to take yours, too.”

“He didn't take my life,” Scud mumbles, watching the thin fog dance over the gray road. “He gave it back to me. And when he found me and took me home, I wasn't much more alive than he was. This, I owe this to him. Whether he will ever know or not, but I will. I will know that I was here and tried to... pay him back. That's what I can do, Missouri, that's what I will do. I will find him.”

The woman contemplates him with a long look before she speaks. “Where he went is no place for you and hopefully never will be.”

Scud nods.

„You could die.“

„There are worse things, believe me. Being alive, but alone, that's way worse.“

Then he turns and opens the passenger door.

“Wait.”

A thin hand is reaching out to him, hanging between them in the air without touching.

“Look, if you... if you do find him, which I highly doubt, let that be said, then... call me, okay? The last thing I want is to be responsible for you starving to death out here. Or being eaten, and then having the other one starve to death. Anyway, you get my point?”

He nods again and takes the cellphone out of her hand. “Thank you, Missouri.”

“Shut up.”

From a safe distance he watches the engine jump to life and the small car rolling awkwardly back into the dark of night. Soon the headlights vanished, swallowed by the fog. What stays is the eery silence which just then creeps up into Scud's neck. He shivers, shaking off the feeling inside his chest and turns to face the other way.

No turning back.

He clutches the cellphone and walks down the path, having not a single soul accompanying him now.

The place could be out of a fairy tale, the home of an evil witch who eats children and builds her cabin out of their bones. Scud shoves his hands deep inside the pockets of his thin jacket, clutching the small cellphone until his fingers ache. The air is cold and the ground muddy, but he follows the road until the tress to his sides start to clear and he can see a large clearing come into sight.

A harsh stench reaches his nose and Scud turns away reflexively. He knows the smell of dead flesh all too well.

With every step he takes the stench intensifies and now there are columns of smoke rising into the gray sky. He doesn't remember what the outside of Anton's mansion had looked like, but the thing staring at him out of broken eyes resembled nothing like it. The burnt, black skeleton of a house. He takes careful steps over stones and smoking ground, avoiding the bones and skulls scattered across the earth.

Ashes are raining from the skies. They swirl up where his feet touch the ground, burnt wood quietly breaking under his steps as he walks over what once had been the manifestation of his own living hell. Now it lays in ashes, all of it and the gray remains surround his form, rise and rain down on him again as a barely noticeable weight on his shoulders.

The air is cool, small puffs of breath forming in front of him with every exhale Scud does. The smell fills his nose, his head and his eyelids flutter, blinking away rising tears.

His chest tightens when he looks up at the monster in front of him. Even like this, without it's constricting walls that kept all the horrors inside of it, Scud feels the presence of a past which had seemed so infinite back then.

He leans over when his lungs refuse to take in another breath of the stinging air around him. His mouth tastes bitter and he forces himself to breath through his nose.

There is nothing to hurt him anymore. It's all gone now.

It just doesn't feel like it.

He wanders the grounds for what felt like hours, turning trashed furniture and recognizing familiar faces.

For a brief moment he wonders what happened to the other pets who were still trapped inside the chambers.

When he looks up Scud can't tell whether it is still day or night. The fog was so thick right at the beginning, it could well be past midnight by now or still early evening. All he knows is that his mouth is dry, his bones ache with exhaustion and his head swirls from all the smoke he breathed in.

But still, no sign of Deacon.

He looks all around him, tries to see a path or anything through the trees surrounding the lost ground. All there is, is destruction and death. If he still had his common sense Scud would turn around, walk past those trees that seem to stretch their dry claws out to him and find a place to stay. Just, when he stays and listens, he knows that it's already too late for that.

So he walks, past the destruction and into the trees, in hopes of something that might not exist anymore.

The trees are throwing deeper shadows now, stretching along the cold forest floor and indulging Scud's small form as he tumbles over roots which stick out of the muddy ground. It has started to rain. His clothes cling to his shivering skin and his hair is sticky with quickly cooling sweat and the occasional rain drops hitting his head. His mind is nothing more but a gray blur. He doesn't even see what's in front of him, just keeps on moving his feet, his legs, tripping every now and then but not falling. His muscles ache and feel sore, he isn't used to walking this long. But Scud keeps going, because he hasn't found him yet.

„ _And you won't_ ,“ a voice inside of him whispers. It's quiet but the words bore deep into his mind.

Scud ignores the dolorous words and pushes past a large oak which, he could swear, hasn't been there just a moment ago. Or maybe he didn't see it? Or maybe the forest tries to block his way, tries to harden his already uneven path? Maybe he's just going crazy.

After months of torture and abuse, this is what kills him. A lone walk through the darkening forest. This is what will break him.

It's only then that he realizes the pounding of his heart, his dry throat and lips chipped by the cold, merciless air. His eyes begin to water, but Scud keeps on pushing forth. He can't go back now, his feet wouldn't carry him any longer if he turns around now. So Scud keeps going, keeps on pushing, like he always did.

He comes to a small clearing. As he lifts his head the whole world spins and his stomach turns. With a grunt he buckles over, hands slipping over the clammy fabric of his jeans. He grips it tight and tries to keep the bile in that threatens to jump up his throat. He feels sick, his whole body hurts and his brain is a fuzzy mess.

„Where are you?“ he mumbles, dry lips stretching and hurting with every word. „Where did you go?“

He dares to lift his head. The trees tumble to the side. His knees almost give in, but he manages to catch his weight in the last moment. If he falls now, Scud won't be able to get up again. He is so tired.

Suddenly his chest tightens in anger, in rage, in wrath. It shoots through his system and for a short moment his head is clear again.

He lifts his head to the sky and shouts: „You promised to come back!“

His voice echoes through the woods, waving through the air around him before it gets swallowed by the trees and darkness around him. When it's gone there is silence, only his heart thundering in his chest and his lungs rattling as they suck in the air reminding Scud that he is still there, that he isn't gone.

The anger disappears and what's left is an emptiness inside of him, like somebody cut him open and took out everything that mattered, leaving him hollow and cold.

The tears feel hot on his almost numb cheeks. Angrily, he wipes them away. Scud wouldn't cry now. There is no reason to. He should have known that it would come to this. It had to. After all, this is his life. It had to end with him being alone, like always.

He hangs his head in silent defeat and then slowly turns to make his way back.

That is when something underneath his feet shoots out of the ground, gripping his ankle tightly.

Scud shouts, tries to shake the thing off in a panic and stumbles to the ground in a mess. He crawls away hastily. When he made some distance between himself and his attacker, trying to catch his breath, Scud takes a closer look.

The thing is actually... a hand? A very pale hand, crusted with dirt and the unmistakable color of dried blood. A very familiar looking hand.

“Deacon”, he breathes.

With both hands he digs into the soft earth, shoveling away the layers as fast as he can. His heart thunders in his ears. He almost doesn't dare to believe.

When he is deep enough he shoves his arms into the hole, grabbing blindly for the body underneath. As his fingers find a softness that shouldn't be there Scud pulls with renewed strength. He huffs when first an arm, then a shoulder and finally the top of a head rise from the gray grounds. Between prayers and curses he manages to pull the limbless form to the surface.

Heavier than he imagined, Scud slumps back, the still and unmoving Deacon in his arms.

“It's you, I found you”, he whispers and wipes away the dirt on the man's face. “Please wake up, man. Come on!”

Scud shakes him, pleads and begs. But Deacon remains motionless, his eyes closed as if in a slumber. How long has he been out here? Drained from strength, unable to escape the safe cave he made himself.

As his heart tightens with cold panic, Scud rolls up a sleeve. He lost him once, he wouldn't lose him again.

The cruel fear that tears at his every string numbs the pain as he sinks his teeth deep into his own flesh, deep enough to rip the skin open and feel warmth flood over his chin.

He holds the man, cradles him like an infant as he presses his open wrist to ice cold lips.

“Wake up, wake up already! You promised me, now keep to your fucking word, you asshole. Please, I can't leave without you, Deacon. Just wake up already...”

The lids flutter before opening almost coyly. Scud feels a hand wrap around his wrist, pressing it further against the now eagerly moving mouth. It feels wrong, having his blood stolen from his body, but he couldn't care less.

He leans down to press his forehead against that of Deacon, mumbling endearments to the still weak man as the trees around them throw their shadows.

 

**xXxXx**

 

The way was as strenuous as the first time. With shaky fingers Scud dialed for the only person that would be willing to help them. Not an hour later they stood in the flood of Missouri's headlights. In almost grim silence she helped them get into the car, shut the doors and drove back to Deacon's apartment.

She didn't lose a word about what Scud just did, and he was grateful for that.

Now, back in familiar quarters, it slowly starts to catch up to Scud.

He watches Deacon, who watches him silently, as Missouri's small hands roam his body, looking for injuries.

“You found me”, he mumbles. Scud nods and takes the hand that is reaching out to him. “You could have died.”

“Didn't, though”, Scud responds and a tired smile tugs at his lips. Deacon smiles in return, too tired to express what was going on inside of him.

“Looks like you had a lot of luck. The silver in your shoulder could have easily killed you. I need to get that out and close the wound. Stay, I'll look what I can find.”

“Thank you, Missouri”, Deacon says slowly, looking up to the smaller woman from his slumped position on the couch.

She rolls her eyes behind her frameless glasses. “Don't, else I might feel like doing the right thing here.”

Scud listens to the small clicking of her heels fade into the distance. He looks up to catch Deacon mustering him, a frown on his face.

“I'm fine, really”, Scud mumbles. The hand that was holding his moves to carefully brush over the bandages around his wrist. He pulls away from the touch almost instinctively. “That didn't even hurt.”

Deacon huffs. He knows Scud well enough by now, recognizes every little lie that comes over these familiar lips. Words that weren't spoken he filled in himself. Reading between the lines is their basic communication.

“You went back to that place”, he starts. “What must it have taken you to go there?”

“None, Missouri drove me”, Scud says. He tries to smile. A very weak attempt. “Look, let's not talk about it, alright?”

“You can't just brush this off like it was nothing. You risked your life. You could have died, just for the faint possibility of me still being there. Why didn't you just go? It was your chance to run. Nobody could have stopped you.”

They fall silent, Deacon watching Scud who picks at his bandages.

“Scud...”

“It wouldn't have mattered”, he whispers. “It wouldn't have mattered without you.”

He finally looks up. Their gazes meet and Deacon slowly nods.

“Okay”, he says and reaches out for Scud's hand again. “It's okay.”

 

**xXxXx**

 

If he had learned one thing, then that it was never good to stay in one place too long. Things would turn bad eventually, and if they turned bad in a new place it only meant to move on to the next. But when he stayed, when he got his hopes up, the risk increased of him getting hurt.

Scud never planned for this. He never said he wanted any of this.

 

**xXxXx**

 

“Looks good to me”, Missouri says after she unwraps Scud's wrist. The skin looks new, a faint shimmer decorating the uneven surface. “An ugly scar will stay, but that probably doesn't bother you anymore.”

There is a bitterness in her voice and for a moment Scud can almost relate to it.

 

**xXxXx**

 

Their time had a limit, both of them knew. They shared this knowledge with every look, every touch and every day spent huddled together in Deacon's coffin. One day one of them would die and then the other one would stay behind, try to make it somehow.

“What if you turned me?” Scud sometimes asked as his fingers slid over the cool surface of Deacon's skin. They would lay in the darkness and talk about anything coming to their mind. But Deacon never responded to his question. Instead he took a breath, a cheap try of faking life, and pulled him into a lose embrace. Every time Scud swore to never bring it up again.

But then something happened. Something went wrong and they found themselves standing in Deacon's apartment, arguing, fighting. And every time it would end with one of them turning around and angrily stomping out of the room. Most of the times it was Scud who ran away. He was so used to pay obedience to his master that at some point something in him would snap and he stopped fighting.

Deacon would shout at him, insult him and tell him what a meaningless existence he would live. And Scud would endure it until the word “human” wavered through the room.

“I'm human because you don't want me!”

It was pointless, every last one of those arguments. Deacon wouldn't turn him and Scud didn't know why.

All he knew was that someday he would be old and Deacon would still be young. Or maybe they'd never make it that long, none of them dared to speak it aloud.

“It's an eternal night, Scud.”

That's all Deacon would say. And then he left, leaving Scud alone with his thoughts, with his fingers still clutching tightly at the sheets and fighting against the urge to scream.

 

**xXxXx**

 

“You don't want me to turn you. You don't want to be like this. Isn't it everything you despise? I can't do this to you. I don't want to be the one that you will look at and eventually start to hate. Eternity can be a long time, Scud. Don't ask this of me anymore.”

“I'll grow old, Deacon. I'll get wrinkles and weak bones and one day you won't be able to hold me anymore because I will just break. Maybe I'll forget myself. Maybe I'll forget you. Will you take care of me, Deacon? When I'm turning into a ghost. Is this what you want for me?”

 

**xXxXx**

 

Mercury grows her eye back. It doesn't stop her from begging Deacon to kill Missouri every time they're together. There is so much hate inside of her. Scud wonders what kind of person she was when still a human. Deacon saw something in her that appealed to him.

But she has been loyal. She hasn't given up on him either. Maybe that's all that matters.

 

**xXxXx**

 

Dragonetti eyes him weirdly for the next weeks, but Deacon shakes his looks off. He has no proof that it was him who tore Anton to shreds and burned down his mansion. He even catches himself considering an explanation, but that would involve Scud and their relationship. To explain something like this, he would need to have it figured out. But they are far from that.

They will just have to stick with what each of them believes for themselves.

 

**xXxXx**

 

Where the hands land his skin grows cold. Just for a moment, before his living warmth takes over them. But then they are gone again, searching another part of his body, just as cold as before. He doesn't flinch when they reach for him. He expects them, needs them, almost whines when it takes them too long to touch again, feel him again, rake over his body. His spine aches and it hurts, but he bends back even more until his ribs press against the thin skin. The body under his mumbles approvingly, low and dangerous. He stares at the spinning light above his head.

His whole world is turning in this moment, and he couldn't care less.

„Scud.“

That's not my name, he thinks, as he lets his head loll forward. It's his turn to stretch out his hands, like a lost child, and feel the body underneath. His thighs are pressed against the sides of a slim hip, like they belong there. Through the fog inside his head a face appears and soft lips worry a spot on his jaw. He leans back again, but this time there are hands holding him, long fingers spanning across his lower back and keeping his spine from breaking into two.

He repeats the name like it's the only word he knows, the only sound that's allowed to fall between them. It's wrong, and he wants it to stop as he presses against the defined torso, his heartbeat the only one to be shared in this moment.

 

**xXxXx**

 

“It's not that I don't want you.”

Scud turns his head. He has caught his breath again, but his heartbeat still shakes his ribcage. It's a feeling he never grows tired of, and neither does Deacon. He chuckles but it turns out bitter.

“What, are we actually gonna talk about this?”

Deacon frowns at him. As much as he frowns, he never gets wrinkles, and he never will. His face will forever be the pale youth that it has been for centuries now.

“This isn't easy for me”, he starts. “It's like trying to explain colors to a blind man. How can I make you understand that this, what I have, is not what you want?”

“Deacon, it's not that I want what you have. Trust me, I really don't. But we both know what's gonna happen. It's nothing we can prevent. Like this, I just feel I am wasting time. I don't want you to suddenly change your mind when I'm old and gross, you know?”

Deacon laughs and reaches to draw a hand over Scud's chest. They are lying in bed, facing each other. Something this intimate – just a month ago it would have seemed impossible for Scud to even touch another being without fear, now he feels calm every time the other man is this close to him.

“ I wanna be with you, that's all.”

“I know”, Deacon mumbles. His gaze is lost in the distance. “But I can't do it.”

Scud swallows, almost chokes on the words that want to rise up in his throat. He feels the familiar pull of desperation, ready to jump up and at Deacon and unleashing all his fears and images on him. But then he catches the look in the man's eyes and the thoughts fall quiet.

This is as close as they will ever come to love.

He had never needed assurance, he had never needed sweet words. He still doesn't need them. This is all he needs. It's gestures, and touches, and the abandoning of your own hopes for the sake of the one close to you. This is beyond fights and arguments.

He never needed him to say it, and he never will.

“Eternity is a long time”, Deacon says. “And I wish you could see it with me.”

Scud looks at him and a small smile pulls at his lips.

“Yeah, me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, my slow ass would like to thank everybody who enjoyed this fic, stuck with it, left a kudo or a kind word for me, and just gave a bit of their time to read this. I appreciate it all so much.


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